


Moonlight Serenade

by Magnolia822



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Romance, Unsafe Sex, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Eve of WWII, London.</i> Merlin Emrys has led a quiet middle-class life until the night he meets the son of his old school nemesis. Bold, gorgeous, and impossible to resist, Arthur Pendragon is wrong for Merlin in every way—not only is he twenty years too young, he’s engaged to be married. And he can never learn Merlin’s darkest secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight Serenade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cookie/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** I receive no profit for this work, and no offense or disrespect is intended. While there are several historical events depicted, I make no claims on historical accuracy. 
> 
> Thank you to my betas and prereaders for all of their help!
> 
>  **Author's Note** : Cookie, it was a pleasure to write this for you. I loved all of your prompts, but I was especially inspired by the idea of age difference with Merlin being older. I tried my best for him to resist Arthur, but in the end these two had minds of their own ;) I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays! 
> 
> Additional Warnings: there are references to rape/noncon, infidelity, and war-related violence in this fic, but these topics are not graphically represented. Please see end notes for more detailed warnings. (SPOILERS). 
> 
> Also, if you're feeling sentimental, you might want to listen to some of the songs referenced in this fic. They are as follows (and can be found on most online music services):
> 
> Glen Miller, "Moonlight Serenade"  
> Benny Goodman, "Where or When"  
> Billie Holiday, "Strange Fruit"  
> Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra, "I’ll Be Seeing You"  
> Duke Ellington, "Take the A Train"

Part One: A Meeting 

August 12, 1939

“Right this way, Mr Emrys.”

Merlin nodded at the maître d’ and removed his overcoat. He adjusted his suit jacket and tie as he followed the man across the dimly lit, smoky room toward a small dining table near the rear of the nightclub. It was early on a Saturday night and the place wasn’t yet full, but Merlin preferred it that way. 

“What’ll it be, sir?” asked a waiter after he’d taken a seat. 

“A glass of white wine, please.” 

“Very good.” The waiter, a young man with a dark moustache, winked and left to fill the order. 

Merlin removed his hat, slicked his hands over his hair, and fished out his cigarette case from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. The tobacco was slightly stale when he lit a match to the end and inhaled. Merlin rarely smoked unless he was out, and he hadn’t been to Orange Street in several weeks, ever since a spate of police raids had quietened the usually vibrant West End nightlife. 

He sighed and blew out a long exhale, flicking his fag into the glass ashtray on the table. Smoking gave him something to do with his hands, which, he’d been told by a dear friend, were ‘fidgety.’ Gwaine had gone to the seashore several days before to join a house party, however, so Merlin was alone. He glanced around the room. 

Middle-class men of various ages filled the bar and surrounding tables, some alone like Merlin, some chatting in small groups of friends. A series of more intimate scenes played out on the dance floor, where a half-dozen couples swayed together to the strains of Glen Miller. Many were servicemen, Merlin noticed, looking handsome in their uniforms. One particular pair caught his eye—they danced very close, fingers entwined, foreheads pressed together. Merlin’s heart tugged at the sight of them. 

England was poised, breathless, with eyes turned towards the Continent. Some reports insisted it would only be a matter of weeks before war broke out, while others had more tentative forecasts. But every day the newspaper headlines became more appalling—especially the latest evidence of Hitler rounding up Jews and sending them to labour camps and ghettos. There were even more sinister rumours, too. Merlin remembered enough of the first war to understand the horror mankind was capable of inflicting on itself. Now the German army was on the march, and a new alliance with Italy meant Hitler’s forces were only gaining strength. He shuddered at the thought.

The waiter returned with Merlin’s wine. The couple in love finished up their song and, hand-in-hand, left the dance floor to get a drink at the bar. Merlin’s eyes flickered over the single prospects. He sipped his wine gratefully, feeling his limbs starting to relax.

At thirty-eight, Merlin still retained the boyish features of his youth. While he had never considered himself handsome, he knew others found appeal in his smooth skin and full head of dark hair barely touched by grey. Still, he wasn’t vain and he didn’t pursue perfection in partners, either. On a night like this, he was simply seeking release from a long, tiring week of work and the looming spectre of war. 

His eyes slid across the room until another pair caught them. Merlin’s breath hitched. 

The young man in question wore a fashionable grey suit, his fedora cocked at a jaunty angle as he leaned against the bar. He had broad shoulders, a slim waist, and the sort of square jaw that never failed to make Merlin weak-kneed. In short, he was gorgeous, and as he stared back at Merlin, his mouth turned up in an inquisitive smile. 

Heart racing, Merlin stubbed out his cigarette and took a deep drink of wine to steady his nerves. He glanced away. Perhaps the man was looking at someone else, someone behind Merlin. But no, he was approaching Merlin’s table with a glass of whisky in hand. 

“Hello,” he said in a smooth, posh voice. “May I join you, or are you waiting for someone?” 

Merlin shook his head and looked up at the man from under his lashes—a seduction technique he’d often employed to great effect. “Yes, please. I’m not waiting for anyone.” 

“What good news.” 

Up close, the man was even more handsome. His blue eyes sparkled as he seated himself across from Merlin. He had aristocratic features: a straight nose, and full, red lips that would look lovely spread around a cock. But in spite of his confident demeanour, he was young—maybe twenty years Merlin’s junior. More of a youth than a man. 

“I’m Arthur.” The young man extended his hand. Merlin took it, admiring the firm, though slightly sweaty, grip. 

“Merlin.” 

“Merlin, what a peculiar name.” He smiled, though, like it pleased him. “Do you come here often, Merlin?” 

“Once in a while,” Merlin replied. “You?” 

Arthur’s hand trembled as he brought his drink to his lips. Ah, so perhaps not as confident as he’d initially appeared. Merlin started to smile when suddenly a chilling thought occurred to him—it wasn’t uncommon for young men to pose as available in order to entrap and blackmail older, well-established men. This beautiful young man, whom he had never seen before in his life, could even be a policeman. He should have known better. He should never have used his real name. 

But there was something sweet, almost vulnerable, in the young man’s—Arthur’s—eyes. Merlin took a careful sip of wine, and Arthur glanced distractedly from the glass to his lips, his genuine interest unmistakable. He let out a nervous laugh. “Actually, no. I’ve never been here before.” Merlin wondered if there was a double edge to the confession. “Am I doing all right?” Arthur asked. 

“You’re doing very well,” Merlin assured him. “But if you’d like my advice, perhaps asking someone if they come often to a place you’ve never been isn’t the most effective introduction.” 

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “Oh? What would you suggest?” 

“I happen to prefer a more direct proposition.” He didn’t know why he’d said it, or why he delighted in the flushed embarrassment rising on Arthur’s high cheekbones. “But not everyone is like me. Offering to buy a drink is usually a good place to start.” 

“I said I’d never been here before, not that I’d never . . .” Merlin could see the difficulty Arthur was having getting the words out. He watched as Arthur tossed back the rest of his whisky and set the glass on the table. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you. You’re lovely, and I’m sure anyone here would be delighted for your attention.” Merlin pulled out his cigarette case again and offered one to Arthur, who accepted.

“But not you?” 

“I’m nearly forty, and you can’t be more than . . . what, nineteen?” 

“Twenty.” Arthur leaned forward and cupped his hand around the flame Merlin offered him. He didn’t seem surprised by Merlin’s revelation. As Merlin pulled away, his fingers skimmed accidentally against Arthur’s cheek. His lower belly tightened with want. 

“Twenty.” Merlin tested the word on his tongue. 

“It was my birthday yesterday, actually.” Arthur took a drag from the cigarette and leaned back in his chair. 

“Happy birthday.” 

Arthur gave him a slight nod. “Thank you.” 

Merlin hesitated. “Perhaps you should use your youth to your advantage while you have it.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Merlin cast his eyes around the bar. It had begun to fill up, and more single men had arrived. He didn’t fail to notice the stares Arthur was getting, and a strange proprietary feeling came over him even as he said, “Wouldn’t you prefer someone closer to your own age?” 

“I’m not interested in inexperienced men.” 

“Am I so very experienced, then?” Merlin couldn’t hold back his teasing smile. 

“Well, if there’s any correlation between experience and age, yes.” 

“Now you’re calling me old.” 

“You’re the one who’s making such a fuss over our ages.” Arthur took a deep inhale and puffed a ring of smoke at Merlin, who leaned back in his chair and laughed, waving the smoke away from his face. 

“Touché,” Merlin said.

“So, can I buy you a drink, Merlin?” Arthur leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. His eyes were serious again, and Merlin shivered. In spite of his youth, Arthur had the air of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The rich textured fabric of his suit confirmed he was very well off. Definitely not a cop or a rent boy, then—neither would have been able to afford such fine clothing. And if it was blackmail Arthur was after, he’d picked a very poor mark indeed. 

Merlin had finished his wine. “Yes, thank you.” 

As Arthur got up to procure them two more drinks, Merlin watched his profile, trying to discern why he seemed so familiar. Since Merlin practiced property law, most of his clients were from the upper classes. Arthur was likely the son of a wealthy family, out in the West End for some youthful rebellion. He was probably still enrolled in university.

Rather than enquiring, however, once Arthur returned, Merlin decided he didn’t want to know about Arthur’s politics or even his last name. Differences in age usually didn’t bother him; he’d been with much older and much younger men before. However, if he was being honest with himself, something about Arthur frightened him. If they had an affair, it would be inevitably brief, and Arthur seemed like the kind of man he could fall in love with. “Do you like music?” he asked, settling on a benign topic. 

“Indeed, I do.” The corner of Arthur’s mouth turned up. “I love Jazz, the bigger the band the better.” 

“So do I, though I love vocal music, too.” Merlin sipped his wine, feeling the tension in his shoulders give way as the alcohol relaxed his limbs. “Have you heard the American singer Billie Holiday?” 

Arthur shook his head. 

“Oh, you must! She’s wonderful.” He stopped himself from proposing they go back to his flat to listen to the new record he’d purchased—but barely. They chatted for a while about favourite songs and films, and Merlin found he and Arthur shared similar tastes. He was more pleased about this discovery than he perhaps should have been. 

“I love this song,” Arthur said almost shyly as he set his empty glass down. “Moonlight Serenade” had begun playing, and several more couples had moved to the dance floor. Men swayed together—one couple so caught up in the moment they kissed, hands tangling in each other’s hair. Arthur watched with an intense, unreadable expression on his face until Merlin deciphered it. Longing. 

His throat scratched like wire wool when he spoke. “Would you like to dance?”

Arthur nodded as Merlin stood and held out his hand. 

They faced each other, and when Merlin put his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur gripped Merlin’s hips. His hands were strong, possessive, and his body heat filled up the space between them. “Have you ever danced with a man before?” Merlin asked. 

“No.” 

“It’s not much different from dancing with a woman. But here, we can be closer. It’s safe.”

Arthur swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as determination chased away the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. 

They began to move to the music, gaining confidence with familiarity, and Merlin closed his eyes and rested his head against Arthur’s temple. Even here, with a gorgeous young man in his arms, it was hard not to think about politics. If diplomacy continued to fail, soon most of these men would be on foreign soil, separated from loved ones, friends, family. Merlin could feel their anguish in his blood and bones, and it only drew him closer to Arthur, who moved them through the dance, leading naturally. 

Though they stood at nearly the same height, Arthur was broader than Merlin. His body was solid, and Merlin liked holding him. Their legs slotted together as they moved across the increasingly crowded dance floor. He could almost imagine they were familiar to one another, instead of being mere strangers. The music swelled as it reached its climax, and Merlin felt Arthur melt against him, pulling him closer to erase the last few centimetres of space between them. 

“I almost didn’t come here tonight. I’m glad I did,” Arthur said. His voice was a whisper in Merlin’s ear. 

“Me too.” 

What happened next changed everything. Maybe Merlin could have thanked Arthur for the dance and walked away, alone, back to his own flat. In later years he would always remember—sometimes bitterly, sometimes with unutterable joy—the moment he felt Arthur’s lips brush his cheek. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “I want you. Is that direct enough?”

“I think so, yes.”

***

Merlin held his breath as Arthur undressed before him. They’d managed to sneak into his building up the fire escape—a safety protocol he followed whenever he had gentleman visitors late at night. Though he knew his landlord didn’t care what his tenants got up to, Merlin couldn’t afford the gossip if any of his neighbours saw him bringing a young stranger home. If word ever got out he was queer, he’d lose half his clients. And he had a feeling Arthur appreciated the discretion as well.

But those thoughts were very far from Merlin’s mind as Arthur revealed himself. In spite of his purported inexperience, he moved with the grace and precision of an athlete, discarding his shirt and folding his trousers to set on Merlin’s dresser before he turned, fully nude. The solid build Merlin had appreciated while they were dancing was even more impressive unclothed: strong arms, finely haired chest, thick, semi-erect cock. 

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Merlin asked as Arthur strode toward the bed and sat down beside him. He wondered what Arthur made of his modest flat. 

“I’m not a virgin, Merlin.” Arthur’s nose wrinkled when he said Merlin’s name. “I’ve made love with women. How different can it be with a man?” 

“Well, I’ve never made love to a woman, but I do know it’s different. You have to tell me if there’s anything you don’t want to do. We’ll start off slowly—”

Arthur cut him off with a tentative kiss that immediately transformed into more as the contact overwhelmed them both. Arthur’s tongue was thick and lush in Merlin’s mouth, tasting of whisky and the cigarettes they’d smoked at the club. Merlin shuddered and let Arthur guide the kiss. He angled his head to get closer and brought his hands to Arthur’s waist. 

Arthur was an accomplished kisser. There was something desperate in the way he searched Merlin’s mouth with his own, making quiet noises of pleasure as though he couldn’t possibly get close enough. In an instant, Merlin was twenty years younger himself, enthralled by his first contact with another man. Oh, how nervous he had been then, how timid. Arthur showed no such reticence. His hands slid over Merlin’s body, unfastening him until he was all undone, seeking Merlin’s rapidly growing hardness through the placket of his trousers. He gripped Merlin’s shaft and squeezed, still kissing him breathless. 

Realizing the moment would be over before it had the chance to begin, Merlin grabbed Arthur’s hand to still him. “Wait.” He pulled back from the kiss and touched Arthur’s kiss-swollen mouth with his thumb. “You’re so eager. But I want more than a toss-off, if that’s all right with you.” 

Arthur’s eyes were glassy. “Yes.” 

With that settled, Merlin pushed Arthur down onto the bed before shedding the rest of his clothes and straddling him. 

The erection rising up from between Arthur’s legs was truly impressive—a thick, sizeable length reddened with arousal. Merlin stroked him just enough to tease and bent down to trail his lips down Arthur’s collarbone to his chest. His nipples pebbled under Merlin’s tongue, and Arthur gasped and arched off the bed. Surely no one had ever done this to him, Merlin thought smugly, considering Arthur’s surprised, enthusiastic response. Merlin squeezed the nipple he wasn’t kissing between his fingers, twisting it, and Arthur jolted as though he’d been shocked with electricity. His cock, too, leapt against his belly, leaving a trail of sticky arousal behind. 

“I want to do everything to you,” Merlin said in a gravelly voice he hardly recognized as his own. Arthur opened his eyes and watched as Merlin shifted position to lavish attention on his cock. 

Merlin loved having a man’s arousal in his mouth. When he was younger, he’d looked on the desire with some shame, aware not every man with his inclination desired to service another. _Pansy_. He had known what he was the day he’d first kneeled and let a man use his mouth and throat. Not until several years later, when he met others like himself, like Gwaine, did he begin to see the word as a label of pride. 

He revelled in it now. While Arthur had initially seemed so assured, so in control, now he was panting, begging Merlin to take his cock deeper. Merlin sucked the slick head into his mouth and swirled his tongue around Arthur’s musky foreskin. Arthur bunched his hands into Merlin’s duvet and groaned. 

“Has anyone ever sucked you before?” Merlin asked. He didn’t usually care for such talk during sex, but there was something wild and hot in the gyration of Arthur’s hips, in his abandon. Merlin wanted to know his secrets—to do things no one else had done for him. 

“No,” Arthur admitted with something like pain. “God, no. _Merlin_.”

Merlin’s name sounded almost reverent on Arthur’s lips, and he realized it had been a long time since he’d so enjoyed having another man in his bed. His usual encounters ended in a pleasant, perfunctory manner, but with Arthur . . . Something twisted in Merlin’s gut even as he began to suck with more vigour. With Arthur he could stay like this all night, just pleasuring him, enjoying the thick feel and taste of his hard, youthful cock. He wanted to push Arthur to the limit, and so he cupped Arthur’s taut bollocks and squeezed, his other hand working the bit of length he couldn’t fit in his mouth. Arthur’s hands were heavy and gentle in his hair. 

“Oh, I’m going to.” A salty spurt of precome coated Merlin’s tongue.

Merlin pulled off and kissed his way up Arthur’s body. He didn’t want it to end quite yet. 

Arthur sighed with obvious frustration but grinned as their mouths met. “I can taste myself,” he said, as though it shocked him. 

“Delicious,” said Merlin.

“Can it really be?” 

Merlin nodded and slid his body over Arthur’s. Next to his bed, he had a supply of lotions and oils—especially handy in such circumstances. He reached for the bottle he wanted and squeezed a substantial dollop of unscented, clear ointment onto his fingers. Arthur watched with appreciation on his face. 

“This will make it better,” Merlin said, and then he reached between their bodies to clasp their cocks together. 

His shaft was rigid as it nudged against Arthur’s. It wouldn’t take long before he spent himself, but he wanted Arthur to let go first. He worked them both together with his hand as they kissed and groaned into each other’s mouths, all finesse lost to urgency. Arthur sucked on his tongue and began to shift underneath him as his orgasm built, and Merlin felt both of their erections harden further until finally Arthur shouted out his release, coating their bellies and cocks with warm semen. The additional slickness sent Merlin after him. His body locked up as exquisite pleasure pulsed through him, wave upon wave of unbearable lightness enveloping his senses and obscuring everything but Arthur. 

After, once they’d cleaned themselves with a towel Merlin procured from the small toilet adjoining his room, Merlin lay with his head pillowed on Arthur’s chest and listened to his slowing heartbeat. He ran his fingers through the patch of chest hair and then drifted lower. Arthur chuckled and shifted out of his reach when he skimmed against a sensitive area, and when Arthur tickled him back they wound up wrestling and laughing until Merlin found his hands pinned behind his head. 

Arthur kissed him. “Well,” he said, smiling. He seemed to shine even in the dim light of Merlin’s tiny bedroom.

Merlin smiled back. “Well.” 

“That wasn’t so alarming.” 

“Not in the slightest.” 

“In fact, I think I could handle a bit more.”

“Oh, to be young again.” Merlin felt the beginning stirrings of Arthur’s interest against his hip. “I, unfortunately, need a little time.” He had a feeling he wouldn’t need much, however, not with the hungry way Arthur was looking at him. 

“Shall I stay the night?” Arthur nosed at his ear. Merlin had always found those particular appendages far too large for his own liking—and he’d been teased mercilessly as a child—but Arthur didn’t seem to mind. He pressed a soft kiss to the lobe, an intimate gesture even in relation to what they’d just done. It was the gesture of a lover. 

“You don’t need to be getting home?” Merlin asked the question with slight trepidation. 

“No. I left Cambridge for the weekend, but my father doesn’t know. I have my own rooms there, and I come and go as I please.” 

“Hmm.” Merlin smoothed back a strand of Arthur’s hair. “What college?” 

“Queens’.”

“Ah, I went to King’s.” He’d been one of the few middle-class students there on scholarship. 

“Just like my father. If only he could see me now,” Arthur said. “He’d disown me immediately as a disgrace to the Pendragon name.” 

A cold hand squeezed Merlin’s chest at the words. His eyes must have shown his panic, because Arthur framed his face with his arms and looked down with concern. “Is something wrong?” 

“No. Nothing.” Merlin shook his head, though his stomach tied in knots. He saw the resemblance now even though he hadn’t initially. Arthur must favour his mother in his looks, but the cut of his square jaw, the shape of his lips . . . 

“Do you know my father? But no, you couldn’t have been there at the same time.” 

Merlin had begun Cambridge in 1919, the year after the Great War ended. His heart and lungs had been weakened from a near-deadly bout of the Spanish influenza, but he’d pulled through, much to the relief of his mother. Even to this day he still suffered from the after-effects of that protracted sickness. 

He’d been too young, and then too ill, to fight in the war, but at Cambridge he was confronted with the remnants of a generation who had served their country—some maimed and broken, others fiercely proud and filled with disdain for those who hadn’t fought. Among these was Uther Pendragon. Six years Merlin’s senior, Uther had survived nearly four years on the front and had received several medals including a Victoria’s Cross. He was also the most disagreeable, dishonourable man Merlin had the unlucky providence to meet. 

Even so many years later, Merlin’s ears burned with shame as he remembered what he’d tried long to repress. He didn’t want to think about Uther with Arthur in his bed. 

“Merlin?” Arthur’s concerned face loomed before him. 

Merlin decided, right then and there, he must never know. 

“No, I didn’t know him.” He hoped the lie sounded more truthful than it felt on his tongue. _No one will ever believe you, and you will be ruined. You filthy pansy._

“You’re shaking,” said Arthur. 

“Am I?” Merlin knew he had to get himself under control. He didn’t want to spoil what had, until now, been a lovely evening. He told himself it made no difference and then found, strangely perhaps, it didn't—he still wanted Arthur in his bed. “Perhaps I’m a bit cold.” He forced a smile. 

“Let’s warm you up then, shall we?” 

Arthur pulled the covers over them. Once cocooned underneath, with a soft pillow under his head and Arthur’s lips pressed to his, Merlin found it easy to let the past go.

***

In the morning, even though Merlin didn’t think he could get another rise, he woke to find Arthur’s mouth teasing down his chest to his cock. He stared with surprise. The previous night, he’d brought Arthur to completion again, this time with his mouth, but he had never expected mutual reciprocation. _From a Pendragon_ , a dark part of his mind whispered.

“I’ve never done this before,” Arthur said, pressing kisses against the sensitive flesh of Merlin’s thighs. “Tell me how?” Merlin’s cock started to fill with nothing more than Arthur’s warm breath to rouse it. 

“Your mouth . . . ah . . . that’s good.” It didn’t seem like Arthur needed much instruction, aside from a warning to watch his teeth. He was a quick, enthusiastic study, and a generous lover. Merlin gave warning before he spent himself. Instead of pulling off, Arthur sputtered his way through Merlin’s orgasm, swallowing his ejaculate. He seemed to be fighting a grimace afterward, and Merlin stifled a laugh. With the pain of unutterable tenderness cloying his throat, he pulled Arthur up into his arms.

“It isn’t the same,” Arthur murmured finally. 

“Hmm?” 

“As with a woman.” 

“Oh.” He waited for the contrast to end badly. 

“It’s better, Merlin, so much better.” There was a ragged edge to Arthur’s voice. He sounded so very young. “I needed to know, but I didn’t expect . . . ” He trailed off. With a dawning horror, Merlin realized the wetness seeping onto his chest wasn’t sweat. It was tears. 

“Arthur? Are you okay?” He squeezed Arthur tighter, but the younger man wouldn’t look at him. He was proud as his father, perhaps, and then Merlin stopped the thought in its tracks. Arthur was sweet and beautiful and kind, and his arrogance was innocent, not cruel. He would never make a similar comparison again. 

When Arthur finally did lift his head, his eyes were clear again. “I’m engaged to be married.” 

“Ah.” Merlin could hardly object. He was in no position to account for the tightness in his chest. For a moment he worried about his heart. He’d had more exertion than he was used to over the last few hours, and the doctors had warned him about strain, but this was no physical ache. He fought his way through it. “Many men in your position marry.” 

“But not you.”

“I found the life of a bachelor better suited to me.” It wasn’t entirely true. Merlin often longed for a companion, someone to be with him through the years, but he could never have married a woman. 

“I must marry if I am to inherit.” Arthur gritted out the words. “If I am to take my place as heir of the Pendragon dynasty.” 

“You don’t sound very keen.” 

“It’s not a matter of being keen. It’s a matter of duty.” Ah, so there it was, the rote response, the age-old story of honour and obligation. Merlin might have laughed bitterly if he wasn’t sorry for Arthur. In any case, it would have been hypocritical. Merlin might not have been living a normal life, but he wasn’t flamboyant about his preferences, like Gwaine. He had never been that brave.

“Who’s your intended?”

“Miss Guinevere D’Avignon. She’s a very lovely young woman.”

No mention of love. Merlin wasn’t fool enough to ask. 

“I hope you’ll be happy.” Merlin could say that much honestly. He suspected, however, that if Arthur’s inclinations truly aligned with his own, as they appeared to, he was destining himself—and his bride—for a lifetime of unhappiness. He had seen it time and again, faithless men who married women and frequented the bathhouses, clubs, and brothels of London whenever they got the chance. It was as it had ever been. While many reared families and lived relatively happily with their wives, for others, the division between duty and desire was harder to bear. 

Then there were those who slaked the occasional urge with another man but would never admit a deeper, more meaningful attraction. They were often rough, angry with the men they slept with and themselves for their perceived weakness. Merlin had known those sorts of men, too. 

“We won’t marry right away, not with the war coming,” Arthur explained. 

Neither of them spoke for a while after that, both of them lost in their thoughts. For Merlin, they centred on what might happen when war broke out. It would likely be a matter of days. Would Arthur fight? 

Merlin stroked Arthur’s arm, taking comfort in the smooth skin, the perfection of muscle underneath. Arthur nestled closer, wrapping one of his bare legs around Merlin’s thighs. His arousal pressed eagerly against Merlin’s hip. 

“Can I see you again?” Arthur asked tentatively. After his revelation, he must have suspected the lessened appeal of any future assignations. Perhaps if Merlin had been younger, that would have been true. But this wasn’t the first time Merlin had been intimate with someone who had other obligations. As immoral as it might be to sleep with a man who had an intended bride, he was selfish enough to want all Arthur would offer. He had a feeling their time together would be short. 

“It’s a bit risky for someone in your position to go to the club,” Merlin said by way of answer. “Anyone could have seen you.” 

“I figured I wouldn’t see anyone I knew there.” Merlin knew what he meant. It was a middle-class place, after all. “And if I did, I’d assume they were there for a similar reason.” 

“Yes, but if you were recognized by someone with nothing to lose, you could be blackmailed. It happens—less so now than it used to, but enough.” 

Arthur tensed. His erection hadn’t flagged, however, and a slight shift of his hips made Merlin’s blood heat. “I never thought of that. I’ll come to you here, then.” Arthur pressed a kiss to his chest. 

“You can come for dinner. I’ll cook.” Merlin watched the blond head dip lower. His fingers curled, wanting to get lost in that soft hair. “How about tomorrow?” 

“How about tonight? What if I stay the day? I’m sorry. I’m being awfully presumptuous. You can throw me out whenever you like.” 

Merlin sighed when he thought about the pile of papers he’d brought home from the office. He’d planned on working throughout the day and then going to see a film with Gwaine in the evening. Those plans lost all appeal when Arthur pressed soft lips to his nipple and teased it gently with his tongue. Work could wait, and Gwaine would understand. Today, tonight, there would only be Arthur.

***

Arthur filled the small sitting room with his presence as he lounged on Merlin’s settee with his glass of wine, swirling it contemplatively. He seemed on edge in spite of his casual posture. Merlin put on the wireless, topped off his own glass, and joined him.

“Are you well?” Merlin asked. “Don’t you like the wine?” 

Arthur didn’t seem inclined to answer his question. He shook his head and took a sip. “I like it fine.” He was wearing one of Merlin’s dressing gowns and looked quite handsome in royal blue silk. “Do you?” 

“I do. Thank you for bringing it.” 

It had been a week since they’d last seen each other. After the first night, Arthur had stayed until early Monday, and had then taken the train back to Cambridge. He had promised to return on Friday evening, but Merlin had only half believed he would make good on his word. Though heavy-hearted, he had steeled himself for the inevitable disappointment. Yet, Arthur had surprised him by meeting him on the street outside his flat, a bottle of vintage Cabernet in hand. 

Once safely alone, they’d kissed passionately and divested each other of their clothing, and Merlin had taken Arthur into his mouth. He’d used his own hand on himself, not wanting to wait to go to bed—but they still had the whole night ahead of them. 

The newscast broke the silence with sombre reports on the German army’s movements. There were rumours the British army had already begun to mobilise. Merlin slid closer to Arthur and squeezed his thigh. 

“How was your week?” 

“I spent most of it missing you.” 

Even though the sentiment warmed him, it frightened him, too. “Arthur—” 

“Why shouldn’t I say it? It’s true. Last weekend was the best of my life, and all I could think of was wanting to be back here again, like this.” 

“And so you are.” 

“Did you not miss me?” Arthur covered Merlin’s hand with his own. His eyes were wary. 

“I did. Of course I did, but you know this can’t last.” 

Arthur’s jaw clenched, and he drained the rest of his glass. “So why are we wasting time?” He stood and strode over to Merlin’s Gramophone, taking a moment to peruse the records Merlin had collected over the years. He had quite a few of them, and Arthur seemed impressed. When he’d finally chosen one that suited him and arranged it to play, he turned off the wireless and held out his hand. The first strains of “Where or When” filled the air. “Dance with me?” 

Merlin obliged him by setting down his glass and coming to stand in the circle of his arms. He was wearing his old cotton dressing gown, and neither he nor Arthur had on undergarments. It felt decadent being pressed up against Arthur barely clothed. 

“You’re a romantic,” Merlin said. “Choosing this song.” He smiled and rested his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. Though his sitting room only had enough floor space for them to turn round in small circles, Merlin thought it perfect. 

“Perhaps I am.” 

“Will you see your family while you’re in town?” Merlin asked. 

“Tomorrow. I have a dinner to attend.” 

“Oh?”

Arthur sighed and hesitated before he said, “Guinevere and I are formally announcing our engagement.” 

Merlin’s stomach sank. He could see it now, the happy couple being toasted by a host of friends and relatives. How proud they would all be, and how dapper Arthur would look in his best formal suit, holding the hand of the woman he meant to marry. Uther would beam at his son, his lineage assured. With a vicious curdling jealousy, Merlin wished he could see the look on Uther’s face if he ever told him he had buggered that golden son. It would be a small consolation, a pretty revenge. But Arthur— 

Merlin was instantly ashamed of himself. He might have pulled away, but Arthur’s arms held him firmly in place.

“You think me foolish. A hypocrite for marrying her.” 

Merlin pushed his own feelings aside. “I think our society is cruel to men like us. How can I blame you for wanting a normal life?” 

“I used to feel I wasn’t normal. Some of the lads did things with each other but liked girls too. They said horrid things about men who liked other men,” said Arthur. “But holding you like this is the most natural thing. How can it be wrong?” 

Not having an answer for him, Merlin remained silent as the song came to an end. They continued swaying together in the newly silent room, with only the sounds of traffic filtering up through the window for music. 

“I want to know more about you,” Arthur whispered against the side of Merlin’s face. “Your accent—you didn’t grow up in London, did you?” 

“I’m from Wales, originally,” Merlin said. “I was born in a small town by the sea.” 

“Tell me about it?”

Arthur was already dragging them towards Merlin’s bedroom. Neither of them bothered to turn on the light; instead, they lay in the darkness, and Merlin answered Arthur’s questions as best he could without giving his secrets away. 

“And your mum, she still lives there?” 

“She does,” Merlin said. “Though my Da died a long time ago, when I was only three. I’ve tried to get her to come here, but she’ll never leave that village. She loves it.” 

“It sounds lovely. I wish we could go there.” 

Imagining the look on his mother’s face if he ever brought a young man like Arthur home was enough to make Merlin smile. She knew of his preferences and worried about him being alone. “Maybe someday,” Merlin said, playing along though he knew the danger of such fantasies. 

“My mother is dead.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Merlin had, of course, read in the papers that Lady Pendragon had succumbed soon after childbirth. After that, he’d stopped tracking Uther’s movements, satisfied the man would keep away from him. 

Arthur leaned on his arm and faced Merlin in the near darkness. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if she’d lived. I had a nurse, a very kind woman, but I imagine not the same as a mother.” 

They whispered like children together until it was quite late, and Merlin found himself yawning as sleep called him under. He wanted to make love again, but his body was exhausted after the long week of work. 

“Your heart,” Arthur said. “It doesn’t . . . you don’t feel any pain?” 

He shook his head and touched Arthur’s cheek. “I can’t overly exert myself, which is why I chose the sort of law I do. The doctors say if I avoid stress and too much physical strain, I’ll live a full life.” 

“But when we—can you still—”

Merlin laughed. “You’re not going to kill me, Arthur.” 

Arthur kissed him again, a slow, languorous kiss.

***

The next night, after his engagement dinner, Arthur returned to Merlin’s flat very drunk.

“It went that well, did it?” Merlin asked, quirking an eyebrow as Arthur lurched into his flat from the fire escape. At past midnight, Merlin had been on the way to bed when he’d heard the tapping on his window. It was a miracle Arthur had managed to climb up without falling to his death. 

“Oh, Father made a very long speech, as he is inclined to do. Gwen’s parents were there, and all of our grandparents, and all the king’s men. But they couldn’t put Humpty back together again.” Arthur pulled at his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, laughing at his own nonsense. 

Merlin knelt down and helped Arthur with his shoes. Arthur stilled and watched him. He looked quite green. “I don’t love her,” he said. “Not the way she deserves to be loved.” 

“You’re soused, dear lad. You’ll feel better in the morning, once you sleep it off.” Even as he spoke, he avoided looking directly at Arthur. He didn’t want Arthur to see the emotion on his face. 

But Arthur wouldn’t have any of it. He grabbed Merlin’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “I may be drunk, but I know how I feel.” 

“Okay.” 

Arthur’s blue eyes were rimmed with red. “Isn’t life horrible, sometimes? But you understand. You understand me.”

Merlin thought his heart might beat out of his chest. He couldn’t look away from that captivating gaze. 

“I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. It’s mad, but I love you, Merlin.” 

Merlin rose onto unsteady feet. He couldn’t allow this to happen, couldn’t give any more encouragement to Arthur who was so clearly out of his depth, even though his own heart insisted he take Arthur in his arms and promise his eternal love and devotion. Madness, indeed.

Once Arthur had slept and sobered up he would call it off. He would tell Arthur he didn’t feel the same. 

It was easier said than done. In the morning, Arthur stared at him from the settee, where he’d fallen asleep soon after his unexpected profession the night before. It had been unbearable to leave him there instead of welcoming him into bed, but perhaps it was for the best. Any more intimacy would have made it impossible harden his resolve when Arthur’s bottom lip trembled. 

“You don’t wish to see me again.” Arthur repeated the words numbly. 

Merlin searched for some way to explain, to make Arthur understand, but he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept a wink. “I think it’s for the best. Before either of us gets hurt.”

“I think it’s a little late for that, isn’t it, Merlin?” 

It didn’t take any more justification. Arthur left, hurt and angry, and he took Merlin’s heart with him.

***

“Who’s the bloke?” Gwaine asked as he and Merlin walked toward Orange Street. It was two days since Arthur left, and Merlin felt like he’d been sleepwalking through life. London seemed greyer and drabber than ever before, and people everywhere were in an uproar about the latest news from Germany. Hitler had signed a treaty with the Soviets.

“It seems rather ridiculous to be talking about my love life when we’re on the brink of war,” said Merlin. 

“Au contraire, that’s where you’re wrong. War is the very time to think about love, don’t you know?” 

“I’m not sure I agree.” 

“It doesn’t matter whether your _mind_ agrees—I know your heart. I haven’t seen you like this since that French chappie.” Merlin made a face. “Scrap that, this is worse than the French chap, isn’t it?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

Nearly ten years before, Gwaine and Merlin had met in the baths and shared a few weeks of romance, but it had quickly become apparent they would be better off as friends. Since then, they’d been through much together. Gwaine was the eternal optimist to Merlin’s pragmatist. He wore his hair long and often didn’t shave for several days; this, combined with his slim-fitting suits and penchant for bright pocket-squares, gave him the air of a dandy or a rogue. However, he was the most loyal friend Merlin had ever had, and Merlin would have trusted Gwaine with his life. He sighed and finally relented, filling his friend in on what had transpired. 

“Ah, a younger man.” Gwaine was grinning. “A masterful stroke, dear friend.” 

“It’s hardly a masterful stroke. I ended it.” 

“Whatever for?” 

“He seemed to be getting too attached. And he’s engaged to a young lady.”

"Are you going to tell me this bloke's name, or is it a secret?" 

Merlin sighed. He had confided in Gwaine long ago about what had happened at Cambridge. Gwaine, in fact, was the only one who knew, and the only one who could possibly understand. After all, he had given Merlin the terminology to finally name the act. "He's Uther Pendragon's son. Arthur."

Instead of reprimanding him or acting shocked, Gwaine simply nodded. "I see. And I assume you didn't tell him . . ."

"No. What good would it do to hurt him like that?" Merlin scuffed the toe of his shoe against a cobblestone as Gwaine stopped to light a cigarette. "As I said, it's over now." 

"Doesn't sound like you want it to be." 

"What I want isn't important." 

While he’d missed Arthur terribly the last several days, he also couldn’t stop thinking about the way Uther had forced him to his knees on that night, the way his own traitorous body had responded even through every synapse in his brain had rebelled. How he’d been sick afterward, afraid every day he’d be called to the dean, exposed as a sodomite, and expelled from university. It had been a long time since he'd let the memories affect him. 

Gwaine shrugged and nudged Merlin’s arm, diverting his dark thoughts. “You’re far too honourable for your own good.” 

“Honour doesn’t come into it, not really. If he’s to marry this girl, if he’s to have any chance at happiness—”

“So you would observe the farce of a marriage to avoid unpleasantness, but thus deprive yourself of the company of someone you fancy. No.” Gwaine’s expression became thoughtful. “Oh. I see. You really do care for him.” 

Merlin didn’t reply as they entered the club. The ease with which Gwaine had seen the truth left him slightly ill. 

“Let’s get very drunk, shall we?” proposed Gwaine. “I daresay we could both use a tipple.” He strode up to the bar and laid down several coins. 

Merlin leaned against the side of the bar and accepted the whisky offered him, grateful when talk turned to other topics. It was difficult to keep his eyes from drifting around the room, looking for any sign of Arthur. He found himself disappointed.

***

Merlin was reading the paper over his Sunday morning tea when a special statement from the prime minister interrupted his wireless programme. It was 11:15 a.m.

_“This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us._

_“I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”_

Merlin sat in stunned silence as Neville Chamberlain continued to explain the thwarted diplomacy carried out by the British and allied governments. War was the only option, the only way to stop a man hell bent on flouting international diplomatic efforts in the aggressive pursuit of his goals. 

_“And now that we have resolved to finish it, I know that you will all play your part with calmness and courage.”_ As Chamberlain’s weary, dignified voice faded, a chill ran up Merlin’s spine. It was as if someone had walked over his grave.

People in the streets were abuzz with the news when Merlin went out. Everyone looked serious—some were red-eyed from crying, though most faces he met attempted to conceal the emotion beneath. Those old enough to remember 1914, like Merlin, had expressions of stoic desolation on their faces. They knew what war would mean. 

Merlin walked and walked; he walked until he reached the Thames. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Several children ran across the footbridge laughing and jostling each other, not knowing how the world had just changed. Their solemn parents trailed behind. 

He would do something, this time. He wouldn’t be able to fight, but this time he wouldn’t sit idly by while his countrymen faced slaughter. 

When Merlin returned home at half past two, Arthur was waiting on the stoop leading up to his flat. He looked older than he had the last time Merlin had seen him. Gone was the tender, open look in his eyes, and Merlin wanted nothing more than to hold him. 

“Hello,” he said instead. “I didn’t expect to see you.” His stomach swam with butterflies. 

“I didn’t expect to come. But here I am. I’m joining the RAF.” 

Even though the news wasn’t entirely unexpected, it hit Merlin like a strike of lightning. He gripped the wrought iron railing for support, hoping Arthur wouldn’t notice. “What about university?” 

“I’ll wait and take my final year after the war. If I survive.” 

“Don’t you dare say ‘if,’” Merlin said fiercely. “Don’t you dare.” His knuckles whitened as metal dug into his skin. 

Arthur’s jaw clicked shut, and he stood. “I leave for Blackpool tomorrow. I had my interviews last week. I was recommended for commission.” 

“Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” Merlin asked. His voice sounded tinny in his ears, as though he were speaking from the bottom of a well. He didn’t expect Arthur to nod and follow him quietly up the stairs. 

They stood in the kitchen facing one another, strangers again. Merlin put the kettle on, aware he couldn’t be angry with Arthur for the distance between them, which was all his own doing. It had seemed the appropriate course of action at the time, but with hindsight, Merlin regretted not taking those last few days, those last few moments. He had a horrible, sinking feeling in his gut he would never see Arthur again. He could bear the separation if Arthur was alive and well, but if something happened to him . . .

A warm grip on his shoulder stopped his clattering about in the cupboards. He turned and faced Arthur. 

“I wanted to see you before I leave,” Arthur said. “To see if I’d just imagined.” He gestured between them.

“You didn’t.” The words felt heavy in his mouth. 

Arthur looked lost. “But you said—”

Merlin pressed a hand to Arthur’s chest and felt the thump-thump beating against his ribs, its speed and rhythm echoing his own. “I lied.” 

Arthur leaned forward and trapped Merlin against the kitchen counter. His blue eyes flashed as he glanced down to Merlin’s mouth. Then they were kissing, a wild, messy meeting of mouths and tongues, hands and arms. Merlin grunted as Arthur hoisted him up onto the counter, and he tangled his fingers in Arthur’s hair. 

“I want to make love to you,” Arthur said, reaching for Merlin’s belt with the determined air of a man who would not be denied. 

The kettle began to screech and steam. 

“Not here,” said Merlin. With some effort he managed to switch off the burner, still trapped within the confines of Arthur’s arms. “I want to do it properly. Let’s go to bed.” 

He led Arthur from the kitchen to his small room. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the bed in a soft yellow glow, which made Arthur even more golden as he sat to remove his clothes while Merlin stood and did the same, but not before he quickly drew the blinds. He wondered if Arthur would object to a different sort of lovemaking than what they’d done before. The small bottle of lubricant he kept for such purposes was in the drawer next to his bed. He retrieved it and put it under the pillow. Arthur watched him with hunger in his eyes and his cock rising between his legs. 

“Would you like to fuck me?” Merlin asked him. 

Arthur’s mouth parted, nostrils flaring. “You’d let me?” 

Merlin nodded, aware his offer came with a more selfish price than Arthur suspected. He wanted Arthur inside him now because he wanted Arthur to remember, later. Always. 

Though Arthur and his intended were saving intimate relations for their wedding night, Arthur had admitted he’d been with several women while at Cambridge. He’d also confided that, while he’d found the experiences pleasant, they had not been the earth-shattering incidents his schoolboy friends had described. Merlin wanted this to be better. 

They kissed and moved against each other on the bed with Arthur on top. Merlin wrapped his legs around Arthur and encouraged his thrusts as their tongues tangled together. He felt the weight and heft of Arthur’s shoulders under his fingers, his strong, muscled back, and realized what a strong man Arthur was. His erection slid against Arthur’s, leaving a trail of sticky precome on his belly as they rocked together. His nipples were sensitive, peaked into arousal by Arthur’s rasping chest hair. 

“Here,” Merlin said after he finally managed to tear his mouth away from Arthur’s. He sought the bottle he’d placed under his pillow. “We need to open me up.” 

“Let me?” 

Arthur slicked his fingers and, without preamble, slid his hand down behind Merlin’s bollocks to seek his cleft. He circled the wrinkly furl of skin with the tip of a finger, as though unsure. 

“That’s it,” Merlin encouraged. “Press it inside. You won’t hurt me.” 

Though he didn’t seem like he believed Merlin, Arthur did as he was instructed. Soon he had worked two fingers into Merlin’s entrance, sliding them deep. Merlin sucked in a breath. He loved the feel of a man inside him, especially one as careful and diligent as Arthur. 

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” Arthur said. “I didn’t think it would happen.” 

“Shh, love.” Merlin buried his head against Arthur’s neck to breathe in the scent of him, the burnt orange of his pomade, his maleness. He licked the salty skin and gasped when Arthur, purely by accident, rubbed against the place inside of him that made his eyes roll back in his head. Arthur didn’t fail to notice the reaction. He made the same motion again, this time with intent. 

“Like this?” 

“In me. I need you to fuck me now,” Merlin said. Arthur nodded and grunted as he moved into position. His cock was thick and red with arousal, and Merlin reached to guide it. On the first push, his breath caught in his throat. Arthur stared at him with wonder and lust in his eyes. He bit his bottom lip and swivelled his hips until he was fully seated, and Merlin groaned with the fullness and stretch of the penetration. He stared back at Arthur and clutched at his arms, dragging him down for a kiss. 

When Arthur finally began to move, Merlin held on, wanting to keep him close. He couldn’t remember what had ever possessed him to turn Arthur away. Gwaine was right; why should he deny them both what they wanted? Was it Merlin’s fault their love was forbidden? He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, wanting to stay present in the moment. Later, there would be time for regrets, for contemplation, but now he had Arthur with him, moving in him, all around him. They began to sweat, and Merlin reached for his cock to stroke along with the rhythm of Arthur’s thrusts.

It wasn’t long before Arthur began to shudder, his hips pounding faster as he lost control. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on Merlin’s lips. “I can’t last.” 

Merlin was at the edge of his limits, too. He sped up his hand and let his pleasure wash over him, clenching down on Arthur as he came. Arthur groaned and gave one final push, and then he collapsed on top of Merlin, pulsing deep within him. 

Arthur’s full weight crushed down upon him, but Merlin didn’t mind. He wrapped his arms around Arthur’s back and held him as their heartbeats and breathing returned to normal. Like this, peaceful and sated, Arthur was nothing more than a lovely boy—he wasn’t a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Merlin stroked his hair, feeling the sweaty strands, so grateful to be allowed this closeness. He pressed a kiss to Arthur’s brow and tried to stanch the tenderness rising up in his chest, the painful tightness behind his eyes. It wouldn’t do to cry now. He needed to be strong. 

He managed to extricate himself from underneath at some point later, and went to the toilet to draw them a bath. His tub wasn’t large, but it was warm and inviting, and he coaxed Arthur off the bed and into the foaming bubbles so he could wash Arthur’s hair and pamper him in all the ways he’d soon be denied. 

Arthur leaned back against him and let his head rest on Merlin’s shoulder as they talked in quiet voices about war. Arthur didn’t have the boyish fervour for battle Merlin might have expected in another man as young. He didn’t seem to be in search of glory or accolades, and though he never said it, Merlin suspected he wanted to please his father. Above all of these reasons, however, Arthur was joining because he was an idealist. He believed in his country, in his duty, and in justice.

Merlin wondered again if he should tell Arthur about his father, but decided against it. He had a feeling such knowledge would destroy the man in his arms and make him reckless. He would never forgive himself if something he said or did caused Arthur harm, and so he kept his old wounds to himself.

“The basic training takes nine weeks,” Arthur was saying. “I don’t know where they’ll send me for advanced training, or what sort of commission I’ll get after that.” 

Merlin nodded. Apparently Arthur had been thinking of joining the air force for some time, but he had only gone for his interviews after Merlin had last seen him. After Merlin had turned him away. Merlin closed his eyes and reminded himself Arthur would have made the same choice no matter what happened between them. 

“Will you have leave?” 

“A day here and there,” Arthur said. “I hope.” He turned and kissed Merlin’s wet jaw. “Come visit me, if you can.” 

Merlin sighed. He didn’t want to put much stock in Arthur’s request, but his heart was buoyed all the same. 

“I’ll write to you,” said Arthur. “Promise me you won’t forget.” 

Merlin leaned forward and brushed his lips against the tender place under Arthur’s ear. “As if I could ever forget you.”

Part Two: War

April 15, 1940

Merlin stared at the note in his hands as he waited for the train for St Athan. The railways had been running irregularly since the outset of the war, and the previous two times Merlin had been to visit Arthur, first in Northern England and then in Wales, he had been late—a disappointment considering they had so few hours together. On this occasion, he’d decided to leave a day early and arrive with plenty of time to spare.

He would be close enough to the RAF base to spend the night with his mother in Ealdor, the seaside village where he’d grown up, and then meet Arthur first thing in the morning. In earlier visits, they’d simply shared a few quiet hours together at the pub, not being able to risk more, and Arthur had explained to anyone who asked that Merlin was his lawyer. This visit would be more special. It would be their first real alone time in over half a year—and the last for the foreseeable future. 

_Dear M,_

_I’ve got two days of leave in mid-April, before my squadron joins the BEF in France. It seems unbelievable that nearly seven months of training is over, and I am ready to fight. Or fly, to put a finer point on it. Yesterday I got some exciting, not altogether surprising news—my last few flights have impressed the powers that be. I am, apparently, a natural. So I’ll be piloting my own plane after all! A Hurricane._

And here Merlin paused, rolling his eyes at the smugness in Arthur’s tone. Through the months of their correspondence, he’d detected Arthur’s increasing pleasure in flying, and watched with a mixture of pride and fear as his lover grew proficient. Pride, because there was nothing more beautiful than Arthur taking flight; fear, because that very skill would send Arthur to dangerous places at the heart of war. Arthur was nothing if not confident in his abilities, and confidence was a double-edged sword. Merlin continued reading, though he already knew the letter by heart. He memorised all of Arthur’s letters. 

_You should see her, M, how fast she is, how beautiful. I’ve named her Avalon, after our country estate where I played as a boy. Aren’t I the luckiest man in the world? I’ll be even luckier if you come to see me. Please. When I’m in the sky, you’re in my thoughts, and when I’m on the ground, I think of no one else._

_-A_

Merlin folded the note neatly and placed it back in his breast pocket, then stubbed out the cigarette he’d been smoking with the toe of his shoe as the train rolled into the station. He hoisted his bag on his shoulder and embarked. 

The journey to Ealdor took nearly four hours from London. Merlin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window as the city changed to green countryside and rolling hills, blue sky opening up above. It was almost easy to forget about the war for a moment and let the pleasure of transit, the imminent joy of seeing Arthur, take over. 

His mother met him at the station and fussed over his skinniness; he’d lost several pounds since rationing had begun in the city, and she promised to fatten him up with plenty of butter and cream from Kilgharrah, their dairy cow, and fresh baked bread. Merlin wasn’t opposed to the fussing. It had been a long, tiring month since the last time he’d seen Arthur, and he looked forward to a good night’s rest. 

In the morning, after a breakfast the likes of which his mother had promised, he set out to meet Arthur. He preferred to walk to calm his nerves, though she offered him a lift in their old Ford. 

They had designated a small pub in town as their rendezvous point. From there, they’d hitch a ride and then hike out to the bluffs and camp the night in an army-issue tent Arthur promised to provide. 

Merlin’s fingers and toes were numb with anticipation as he slid open the door and found Arthur standing at the bar, sipping a pint. 

He looked dashing, though he wore civilian clothes rather than his RAF uniform. His blond hair swept over his forehead and gleamed in the early morning light filtering in from one of the high alcove windows. This particular pub had once been a barn, and it still maintained the feel and earthy smell of a working farm. 

When he saw Merlin, a smile of dazzling brilliance broke across Arthur’s face, and Merlin’s stomach flipped. How was it that he, a grown man who’d had many lovers, could be so undone by a mere lad of twenty? 

“Hello,” Arthur said, clapping him on the arm. Anything more than the most cursory touches would get them strange looks. Still, the long separation had frayed Merlin’s nerves, and he stood a bit closer than he might have were Arthur another man. Arthur didn’t seem to mind. 

“You look well,” Arthur said, his eyes sweeping over Merlin’s body. “Are you?” 

“You don’t think I’m too thin?” 

Arthur frowned. “Perhaps a bit. Have you been eating all right?” 

“I’ve been fine. Our rations are more than enough for a single man.” He’d never been a huge eater himself. Arthur, however, made up for his appetite and more. They sat and dined on meat pies and beer until they were both full to bursting, and then, after Arthur had paid the publican (he’d insisted), they gathered up the camping materials Arthur had brought and set out of town. 

They caught a ride from a sheep farmer who let them off about a half-mile from the beach. He was a jocular, red-faced man, and the rare sort of villager who didn’t care to inquire about their business. Instead, he spent the trip talking about how the British government had commissioned his farm for wool and were paying full whack. Apparently, the war was good for something other than liberating Europe from Hitler’s yoke.

“Are you sure no one will find us here?” Arthur asked once they’d arrived, sweeping his gaze over the rocky cliffs that led down to the sea. 

Merlin nodded. The frosty nip in the air, coupled with the black clouds rolling in from the Atlantic, guaranteed they’d be unmolested for the length of their stay—and possibly very wet. 

“This tent isn’t very large, I’m afraid,” Arthur said once he’d set it up and they’d rolled out the two sleeping bags. They kneeled, nearly chest-to-chest, as a few stray drops of rain began to patter against the canvas. 

Merlin took Arthur’s hands. “I don’t think I’ll have a problem being close.” 

“Nor will I.” 

They kissed, and Merlin felt the sweetness of it in his very bones. He responded instantly, hardening like a schoolboy. Arthur’s eyes gleamed as his own body came into contact with Merlin’s excitement. “Did you—”

Merlin nodded, fishing the small bottle out of the bag he’d brought. “Now?” 

“God, yes, now. I’ve been waiting so long.”

“Me too. Let’s not waste another second.”

The day grew violent with rain, but they stayed mostly dry in their tent, their spent bodies relaxed and warm. Arthur spoke of his squadron fondly, recounting stories of the men he now considered his brothers. There was Percival, a mountain of a man, who always had a kind word for everyone. Elyan was known as the storyteller of the group, the one who always had a quip to diffuse tension. Leon was older than the others, quiet and intelligent, with a wife and child at home. And then there was Lance. He was the son of a farmer, but honourable and just as a knight—Merlin always smiled at the way Arthur ascribed medieval personality traits to his brothers-in-arms. Perhaps it was an effect of his history studies at Cambridge. The way Arthur spoke about Lance might have made Merlin jealous, had Arthur not noticed Merlin’s silence and teased him for it, kissing his throat and promising, as they made love again, there was no one else. 

They never spoke of Guinevere. 

Finally, after their second go, Merlin rolled over to face Arthur. He brushed away the sweaty fringe from his face. 

“I’ve been training to be a medic at St Bartholomew’s,” Merlin said. He’d been holding the news back from his letters, wanting to surprise Arthur in person. It was gruelling to train in addition to his day job, but Merlin had never been squeamish, and once fighting picked up, he knew the need for hands would be great. The lack of free time didn’t bother Merlin, not with the only person he wished to spend it with so far away.

“What? Merlin, you’re not joining the army, not with your heart. You can’t—” 

“Don’t get a bee in your bonnet, prat,” said Merlin. “My heart is quite well looked after. It’s a civilian volunteer force. We haven’t seen many casualties yet, but they’ve opened up several new wards, and they need all the help they can get.” 

“Well. I’m not sure I like the idea of you being in a place that could be targeted. They say there might be air raids, Merlin. If Hitler bombs London—”

“Then I will do my best to stay safe, same as you. Arthur, I need to do this. Just as I know you need to fly in your plane. I’ll trust you to keep me safe, up in the sky. In Avalon.” 

“Oh, I wish you could see her.” The sentiment lodged in Arthur’s throat, making his words thick. “I wish I could take you with me, one day.” 

Merlin squeezed Arthur’s hand and pulled it onto his chest, spreading it out over his heart. “Maybe you will.” 

At suppertime, Merlin shared the lunch his mother had kindly insisted on packing for him, and they went outside when the rain let up. The ocean roared, frothing with large waves, and Merlin laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder to watch the sunset as they shared a cigarette. He needed to remind himself he hadn’t expected this, for them to be here so many months later. Time with Arthur was a gift, and he would treasure it. 

“Merlin,” Arthur finally said. “I don’t expect you to wait for me.” He spoke with sincerity, though Merlin could see the pain the words caused him in the twist of his mouth. He turned toward the sea, so Merlin could no longer read his expression. 

“Then you’re mad, as well as an idiot,” said Merlin, turning Arthur to him, kissing his pouting mouth again. No one was around for miles, and they were outside, and free. “I’ll wait for you forever. But you’re young. You’ll be with many young men.” He thought again of Lance. “If you find yourself with the opportunity or the inclination, I would understand—”

“Don’t speak such nonsense.” Arthur’s face darkened, and in his grimace Merlin saw what had gone unsaid between them for so many months. But with Arthur still engaged, there was no point in saying it out loud, even now.

Arthur’s eyes flickered to Merlin’s mouth, already greedy for more kisses. And God, how Merlin responded, heat flaring low in his belly. He’d never been so consumed by wanting another person. 

“I’ll write to you, Merlin. Please say you’ll write to me.” 

“I will. Of course I will.” 

 

_June 16, 1940_

_Dear M,_

_As you know by now, France has fallen to Hitler. The last month has been a mad rush, and I hardly know where I stand. I feel like I’m still up in my plane, holding my breath, not sure which way is up or down._

_I’ll tell you all about it someday—but now I can only say this: we’ve lost so many men. Those of us left are on a ship now, waiting for reinforcements or evacuation orders, whatever comes first. Do you remember when I told you about Elyan, the storyteller? He’s gone. His Spitfire took a hit to the left engine and she went down over open water. Couldn’t find the wreckage. Percival is beside himself. They were good friends before the war, joined up together. I can’t imagine what it must feel like for him. Some of the lads are gathering tonight to say good-bye to our fallen brothers. I’ll be there to raise a glass._

_Please, think about leaving London and going to your mother’s in Wales. You’ll be safer there. I’m not sure what our next mission will be, but I’ll write soon. Tell me all your news, how work at hospital is going. I still have your last letter under my pillow, and I read it every night before I sleep. Until I hear from you again, I am_

_Yours,  
Arthur._

_July 17, 1940_

_Dear M,_

_We’re back in Scotland. The weather up here has been terrible—cloudy and rainy—which on the upside has hampered enemy activity. What an optimist I’ve become! Today I helped block a raid on a couple shipping trawlers off the coast, and a small village on the Orkneys. We’re missing a Spitfire. The bloke flying it wasn’t in my squadron, but Lance knew him._

_It sounds like you’re doing quite well at hospital. I’m proud of you—and don’t be bashful, you helped save that young Irishman’s life. And I understand why you don’t want to leave London. Just know that I worry about you as much as I know you worry about me._

_It’s cool here tonight, and I’m thinking of our camping trip. When I come home, there are so many things I want to say to you. Until then, I am_

_Yours,  
Arthur._

_August 25, 1940_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Bombs fell on London last night. I was coming home from a late night at the office when the sirens went off. Luckily, found shelter in a church basement and waited until they gave the all clear. In the morning I reported directly to St Bart’s, of course, which is where I am right now._

_They say this is only the beginning. Nine civilians were killed and we saw several bad injuries today. One woman had a piece of shrapnel lodged in her spine; her home was destroyed as well. It was horrible to see, but she was very strong—much stronger than I would have been in her place. I fear this is only the beginning._

_But I don’t want to talk about the war. I want to talk about your last letter. Oh, A, I don’t think you should be writing such things. What if somehow our correspondence is intercepted? And please, don’t let’s talk about your marriage now. Whether or not you break it off with Guinevere, you shouldn’t be making any major decisions until this is over and you can think clearly. Whatever happens, I am your own_

_Merlin._

_September 17, 1940_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Oh, my dearest. I am writing to tell you I am quite all right, and so is Mum in Ealdor. I know you must be worried about our safety. We were hard hit two nights ago. London is so much changed, you would barely recognize her. The whole city smells of smoke, and the air is dark and sooty. Though we are used to blackouts now at night, being entirely without power for so long is beginning to take its toll. It’s curious, how things we take for granted during times of peace—sugar, hot water, a peaceful night’s rest—become rare commodities in wartime. It brings back memories of my childhood, but now I see clearly, without the blinders of youth. Now I am grateful for everything that I have, and I can’t complain since so many have lost so much—their homes, their families._

_Please don’t worry about me. I am becoming an expert physician. Last week, one of the doctors I have written to you about before, Dr Gaius, said he’d never before met a volunteer who so stubbornly refused to go home. He’s probably right—when I’m not working, I’m here at the hospital. I find the less I am at home, the better. Keeping myself busy is the only way to distract myself from worrying over you. And Dr Gaius is a jolly good friend. He has seen this sort of devastation before, and he tutors me. Without him, I don’t think I could bear it._

_Your name was in the papers the other day. Why did you not tell me you had been awarded a flying cross? I always knew you would be valiant in battle, but I confess I nearly wept when I read it, in public no less! Gwaine calls me a sentimental fool for you, but I simply ignore him. I may be a fool, but I’m first and always, your own_

_Merlin._

_January 10, 1941_

_My dear Merlin,_

_Seeing you on Christmas, however briefly, made me the happiest man alive. I will live on those memories for a long time to come. I cannot write much now except to say I’m being sent to North Africa, as I told you. We leave in three days’ time. Please, don’t worry yourself over me. Now that I’m leading my own squadron, I will do everything I can to keep my men—and myself—safe, so that I may return as your_

_Arthur._

_April 29, 1941_

_My darling boy,_

_I’m so sorry to hear about your friend Lance. What a terrible loss. I won’t try to stop you from grieving, or make any grand statements about death being part of life. War is hellish, and it steals the best and brightest men before they reach their prime. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t just._

_Please, however, know it isn’t your fault. Know that I love you. If I could take your pain away, I would._

_My love always,_

_Merlin._

_June 16, 1941_

_Dear M,_

_Our offense to relieve Tobruk from Rommel ended in failure yesterday. The ground forces weren’t able to break through, and we lost several fighters and three bombers to German anti-aircraft. Fifteen men in all, gone. Don’t know when we’ll regroup, but morale is low. Worse—we’re running low on whisky. Ha. I’ve been trying my best to be a good leader, and I know the men look up to me, but it’s damn hard sometimes. Wish Lance was still here._

_I’m tired, Merlin. I miss you. I’m so angry sometimes thinking about how unfair it is that I can’t be with you now, and then I chastise myself for my damn selfishness._

_I’m not the boy I was when I left. I’m afraid when you see me next, you won’t recognize me at all. If I could just hold you once again, I’d die a happy man._

_Arthur._

_July 2, 1941_

_Arthur,_

_Never talk of dying, please. I am well. Had some slight difficulty with my lungs, but not to worry, all is fine now. Writing this in a hurry b/c we just got a convoy in and beds are full to bursting. They need me. I’ll write again soon._

_Love,  
Merlin_

_September 21, 1941_

_Dear Arthur,_

_There is something I need to tell you. I’ve recently made acquaintance with Guinevere, who has begun volunteering at the hospital. She is a lovely young woman with an admirably strong stomach, and she loves you very much. She speaks about you often, and she knows we are acquainted. Don’t fear—she doesn’t know the nature of our attachment, and I would never give you away. I would not blame you for marrying her after all, but now that I know her, I’m afraid I must say something that has been weighing on my mind._

_I love you, but this deception makes me sick at heart. I’m not intending this as an ultimatum, dear one, but I know now I have been wrong to convince myself it was all right to carry on as we have; it is not fair to Gwen. Your life is your own and you must do with it as you see fit. I love you and always will, no matter what you decide. I will see you when you get your next leave in December. Please come home to us._

_Yours,  
Merlin_

_November 28, 1941_

_Dear Mr Emrys,_

_Hello, sir. You don’t know me, but I was in Squadron Leader Pendragon’s force and a mate of his too. Rode a bomber for him. He wanted me to write to you since he’s not feeling well enough to write just now. He’s been hurt pretty bad and at this point we don’t know if he’ll pull through._

_His plane went down over Tobruck during the last offensive. We won and we might not have without him. You should see him in a firefight. He’s a great leader and he got us out of a hairy mess, but then he took a shot to the tail. Couldn’t believe it. Managed a landing but he’s pretty banged up. He’d be angry with me not getting to the point, so here it is. He lost a lot of blood and they couldn’t save his left leg, and then there was an infection. He’s strong though, and he’s fighting as best he can. I know you care for him a great deal as he cares for you. Maybe you won’t mind me saying that I once had a fella I cared about too._

_He’ll be discharged and shipped home next month if he gets any better. I sure hope that he does. God bless and keep you and yours._

_Sincerely,  
Percival Endicott Wilkins_

Part Three: Reunion

December 17, 1941

Merlin’s stomach lurched as he read the date on the letter. November 28 was nearly three weeks before. Arthur. Oh God. Anything could have happened in that time. He read the letter over again and again. Words flickered through his mind but wouldn’t quite take root to make meaning. _Couldn’t save his left leg . . . Infection . . ._

Oh God. 

He made it to the toilet in time to be sick, and he retched miserably, clutching the letter in his sweaty hands. He was shaky and pale by the time he’d expelled the contents of his stomach and managed to stand and clean his mouth with water from the sink. His mouth tasted sour from the wine he’d drunk at Gwaine’s good-bye party, where they’d polished off the last stores of his friend’s most beloved French vintage. Gwaine was joining the army. 

Merlin stumbled out of the toilet into his sitting room, realizing he was still wearing his overcoat. He’d been so impatient opening the letter, hoping for word from Arthur. His outgoing correspondence in September had been their last communication.

That stupid, foolish letter. He should never have told Arthur he’d met Gwen. Maybe he’d done something rash in response. He should have waited until Arthur was home, safe, before breaking the news so callously. And why had he said it at all? To relieve his own conscience? He was sick at himself. 

Gwen. She’d gone on holiday up north to her parents’ estate two weeks before, and he wondered if she knew the news and, if so, how she was holding up. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been obviously distraught, but he knew she would have told him if she’d had news of such an injury. He promised himself he’d ring her later. 

With a strange sort of fatalism, Merlin retrieved his hat and set out again into the cold night.

He knew the streets that led to Uther Pendragon’s London house well enough—he’d avoided them long enough—but now he ran towards the address with a single, driving purpose. _Arthur, Arthur,_ his mind repeated, his blood pounded, his feet echoed on the cobblestones. He didn’t know if the family were even at home. They probably had already gone east to Avalon for the holidays, or more likely hadn’t returned to the city even after the bombs had stopped falling at night. Still, Merlin would not be able to rest until he knew what had happened to Arthur, no matter how his body rebelled at the thought of seeing Uther again. 

Many of the buildings that surrounded the Pendragon house had been partially or mostly demolished during the Blitz. However, the Pendragon manse had somehow avoided the destruction and stood amongst its less fortunate neighbours like a proud brick sentinel. Lights lit the windows on the ground floor, but the rest of the house was dark. It didn’t bode well for the family being at home. Or it could mean something even more terrible. Mourning. 

His stomach slid sickly to his feet as he made his way up the stone stairs to the freshly painted white double doors. Not even St. Paul’s had survived intact, but this, the home of his most grievous enemy, had been spared. 

He rang the bell.

The butler who answered looked less than impressed to find Merlin at the door. His mouth curled up slightly as he asked, “May I help you, sir?” 

“Is the family at home?” Merlin asked. 

“No. His Lordship is at Avalon for the holidays.” 

“Of course.” Merlin’s blood went icy. “The young Mr Pendragon . . . I heard he had been injured. Have you any word of his condition?” 

“You are an acquaintance of Mr Pendragon’s?” 

Merlin nodded, steeling himself for the worst. “I am.” 

The butler didn’t appear convinced. Certainly he found it hard to believe that his fine, golden-haired master could have anything in common with the likes of Merlin, who knew his shabby winter coat didn’t speak for his character. His business had been hard hit by the war, but Merlin still managed to get by. He was quite losing his patience with the man. 

The butler’s disdainful gaze softened slightly. “Mr Pendragon is quite ill, but he’s at Avalon, as well, recovering from his injuries.” 

“Oh! Thank you. Thank you . . .” Merlin searched for a name.

“Mr Cedric.” 

Merlin tipped the man handsomely, careful to reserve enough money for his train fare. He was already running towards Victoria Station by the time Mr Cedric closed the door behind him.

***

After an early train journey, Merlin checked himself into the Rising Sun, the only inn within walking distance to Avalon in the small, romantically named village of Camelot.

Halfway through his mad dash to Victoria the night before, he’d decided to return to his flat for a change of clothes and warmer boots, and he was glad for them now. Winter had come to the valley, and several inches of snow made walking difficult, even on the road, though it also made the countryside quite lovely. Rolling hills were covered in white, dotted by small thatched cottages. Smoke rose from most chimneys, lending the air a pleasant homey smell, and in the fields beyond, horses and cattle nosed through the cold white groundcover to find the grass underneath. A gorgeous black mare whickered at him as he passed. There was no war here, only the peace of gently falling snow. 

In their frequent correspondence during the war, Arthur had often spoken about this much-beloved estate and surrounding environs, and Merlin longed to see the place that’d had such a formative influence on him—the land he loved so much, he would give up his own happiness to ensure its legacy. 

He had Percival’s letter in his breast pocket—a heavy weight reminding him of what he would find when he arrived. He’d gone over it a thousand times. Arthur wouldn’t want pity. He wouldn’t want Merlin to think of him as less of a man. Merlin had seen many men lose legs—had even helped to take some off, when they’d grown too gangrenous to save. But this was Arthur, not a stranger. Though he knew it would be difficult to control his feelings, he would do it. Arthur would still be lovely. He was still whole. Merlin vowed to show Arthur that, even if Arthur wanted nothing to do with him. 

But when the Pendragon estate came into view, Merlin had to stop and catch his breath. He stubbed out the last of his cigarette with the toe of his boot. Avalon was striking and much larger than Merlin had even imagined. Done in the Gothic style, it looked more like a church than a house, and its imposing exterior made Merlin’s insides tense up with a momentary frisson of fear. He had to remind himself Uther Pendragon couldn’t hurt him. Not anymore. 

A footman answered the door, an attractive young man probably around Arthur’s age, with dark hair and sooty black lashes. He seemed surprised to receive a guest, and he was much more gracious than the London butler had been—and more forthcoming, once Merlin told him he was a friend of Arthur’s come to see him. 

“His Lordship isn’t at home. He’s gone to town to fetch the doctor, I’m afraid,” the footman said as he let Merlin in and took his coat and hat. “The young master is poorly.” 

Merlin tried to control the beating of his heart, the expression on his face. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Oh?” 

“Arrived a couple of days ago—all the way from Africa. Poor chap. Trip home took a toll on him.” They walked through the main hall, and their voices echoed off the high-vaulted ceiling. Merlin realized he was being led to the visiting parlour. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Merlin said. “Is . . . is it . . . would it be possible to see him?”

“He’s in a fever, sir. Probably wouldn’t recognize you.” 

Merlin understood it for the refusal it was, but he wasn’t leaving the house without seeing Arthur. He stopped walking. “I must. I must see him.” He was aware his voice had gone soft, too intimate. 

The footman looked like he might give way, but in that instant, the front door opened again, and Merlin stood staring at a man he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. 

Years of good living and soft comforts had aged Uther Pendragon. He had once been a man of formidable strength, but his imposing physical presence had diminished. As he swept off his cloak, Merlin noticed a sizeable paunch rounding the front of his suit. His eyes, however, were as cruel and shrewd as ever. 

“Emrys,” he said, not the least bit surprised. “I wondered if you’d come.” Another man, much shorter and more portly than Uther, stepped around him. He was carrying a small black bag. The doctor. 

“I’ll just . . .” He motioned towards the stairs. 

Uther nodded. “He’s up in his rooms.” 

“Your Lordship,” said Merlin, keeping the tremor out of his voice. He didn’t bow. If the footman noticed the lack of etiquette, he kept his face neutral.

“I was just offering Mr Emrys some tea in the blue room, Your Lordship,” said the footman. “Shall I ring for two?” 

“Yes, Mordred. That will be all. I’ll show Mr Emrys in.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

Mordred vanished with hardly a noise, taking Merlin’s hat and coat with him. Now he was alone with Uther. 

He had expected to feel fear, but after the first moment of recognition, he felt only contempt, anger, and a vague foreboding. If Uther had been expecting him, he knew of his acquaintance with Arthur. 

Once he’d ushered Merlin into an intimate parlour that was, indeed, decorated in various shades of blue, Uther rounded on him. “You’re not going to see my son.” 

Merlin swallowed and tried to keep his breathing even. He had no idea what Uther knew—but from the glare in his eyes, it was definitely too much. Had Arthur told him intentionally? Unlikely. Perhaps they’d been exposed from some other source, someone who had seen them together? Irreverently Merlin thought of the innocuous sheep farmer who’d once given them a ride to the seaside. Ridiculous. 

“I’m not going to ask for permission. He’s a grown man, and he’s my friend.” 

Uther laughed mirthlessly. “Your friend, indeed.”

“Whatever you’re insinuating, you’ve got a lot of nerve. I care about him a great deal.” 

“You care about him so much, you’d let him give up his life, his fortune, and for what? For a commoner twice his age with nothing more than two pence to rub together. A sodomite. He would be the laughing stock of the nation. If you truly cared for him, you’d leave right now and never come back.” He nearly spat the words. Merlin balled his hand into a fist. If the footman hadn’t knocked at the next moment with the tea, he might have punched Uther Pendragon. 

Mordred, for all he must have heard before he entered the room, smiled benignly. He set down the tea service and disappeared without a word, shutting the door quietly behind him. By that time, Merlin had managed to get hold of himself. Punching Uther, no matter how he might want to, wouldn’t solve anything, and it wouldn’t get him in to see Arthur. 

“So you know.” 

“Yes. I know. I suspected something was going on when he wrote to me, just before his injury, and said he planned to break off his engagement with Guinevere. But I didn’t know for certain until he said your name in his delirium.” 

“He said my name?” Merlin could hardly process what Uther had just told him. 

“Yes. He called for you—among other things I won’t dare to repeat here. It’s lucky I have such trusty servants or word of his debauchery would have already spread.” 

As though they were conversing about the weather, Uther helped himself to a cup of tea and a biscuit. He made no move to offer Merlin anything, but Merlin couldn’t have swallowed a morsel if he tried. His stomach curdled as though filled with an oily liquid. Uther was far, far too calm. He would never let him see Arthur. 

“How much money do you want?” Uther asked. 

“I don’t want any of your money.” 

“Oh, true love, is it? How quaint.” He sneered. “Perhaps a ring to the local constabulary would be more effective. A charge of gross indecency still calls for what, at least a couple years hard labour? Do you think your poor heart could survive?” 

Merlin went cold, but this time from pure, unadulterated rage. Uther would dare accuse him of indecency, after what he’d done?

“You raped me.” 

Uther’s face sobered, but he didn’t so much as flinch. “Don't lie and pretend you didn't enjoy it.” 

Blood pounding in his ears, Merlin took a step forward. “Enjoy it? Is that what you think? You are a depraved man, Uther Pendragon, and I don’t care who knows it, not anymore. If you think you can threaten me because I love your son, think again. I’m not the easily frightened boy I used to be.” Saying it out loud, finally, made Merlin feel as though he'd thrown off something around his neck, something that had been slowly strangling him.

“Who would believe you?” Uther asked icily. He sipped his tea. “It’s your word—a known, near penniless sodomite—against mine. Already I have a man gathering evidence of your past assignations in London. A particular club on Orange Street?” 

Merlin’s heart seized, but Uther continued. 

“Ah, don’t concern yourself. I don’t plan to use it unless you force my hand. Do you really think you could stand against me in court? I am a war hero and a well-respected member of the aristocracy. Do you really think Arthur would believe you? He wouldn’t, and he’d hate you for trying to turn him against me. See? In your eyes, it’s clear you understand the truth. You’ve always been an intelligent man, my dear Mr Emrys.” His voice curled over Merlin’s name. It made Merlin’s skin crawl.

Merlin shook, blinded by his all-consuming hatred for Uther and by an even stronger, desperate love for the man upstairs fighting for his life. Oh Arthur. He couldn’t tell Arthur the truth. Even if what Uther said wasn’t true, and Arthur didn’t hate him, such news would be devastating. With Arthur in such a weakened state, Merlin couldn’t take that risk. 

He was beaten—for now—and Uther knew it. But once Arthur was stronger . . .

He’d broken off his engagement. He wanted Merlin, still. 

Merlin thought with a pang of Gwen’s desolation the last time he’d seen her. Perhaps she’d received the news from Arthur before she left for holiday. 

Arthur still wanted him. 

“I’ll have Mordred show you out.” 

Merlin numbly accepted his coat and hat from the footman. The doctor had come downstairs again and was giving Uther a report on Arthur’s condition, which, by the cast of the man’s face, was grave. Uther’s expression sank, and for a moment he looked almost human. No matter what a despicable person he was, he obviously loved his son, or at least his legacy. For now, that would have to be enough. 

Mordred leaned close once they were out of earshot. 

“Come ’round the back tonight at midnight. There’s a small servant’s door in the rear garden. Knock twice and I’ll let you in.” 

Merlin was speechless. Perhaps this was another trap—a ploy to catch Merlin breaking into the manor? But Mordred’s blue eyes were clear. They shone with pity. 

“Why?” Merlin asked.

The young man shook his head and pressed his finger to his lips. “Just be there.”

***

The frosty nip in the air couldn’t touch Merlin, not even as he waited five, ten, then fifteen minutes past the appointed time. But after a half hour had passed with no sign of life, he started to worry Mordred had misled him after all. His fingers and toes turned to ice, but he couldn’t leave, not while any hope of seeing Arthur still remained.

Finally, however, the garden door opened. 

“I thought the other servants would never go to bed,” said Mordred. “That’s why it took so long. Sorry.” 

“It’s quite all right,” Merlin said through frozen lips, grateful to be led inside. In the darkness, he could see they were in a small corridor. It smelled vaguely of roasting meat—they were near the kitchen, then. 

“This way,” said Mordred. “Be as quiet as you can.” 

Merlin concentrated on not tripping over his frozen feet as he followed Mordred through a veritable maze of stairs and corridors, with only a flickering candle to light the way. Shadows seemed to loom, and with every creak, every whisper of wind, Merlin worried they’d been found out. But somehow they made it out of the servant’s keep into a great, spacious hall. And then they were in front of Arthur’s bedroom chamber. It was almost like Merlin could feel his presence through the plaster and wood separating them. 

Inside, Arthur lay unmoving under a warm, thick comforter. A small bedside lamp was turned on, and Merlin could see the black circles under Arthur’s eyes. The paleness of his face was alarming. 

“You have ten minutes,” said Mordred. “The nurse will be back to check on him soon. I’m sorry you won’t have longer.” 

“Thank you, Mordred.” 

Once Mordred left them alone together, Merlin approached the bed cautiously, both not wanting to wake Arthur and wanting to at the same time. It had been a year since the one day together last Christmas—brief stolen touches in his flat before Arthur had to return to his duties. An eternity. 

Arthur’s still hand rested outside of the covers, and Merlin took it in his own and pressed a kiss to it. 

He was burning up with fever. 

Damn them. Damn the damn country doctor. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Merlin stripped back the comforter and felt for Arthur’s pulse—it was coming too fast. Merlin unbuttoned Arthur’s pyjama shirt and winced at the bruises he saw there—a huge purple-yellow rash spread across his chest. Arthur’s leg had been amputated just above the knee. Merlin checked the bandage and was relieved to see the wound wasn’t putrid, which meant Arthur had likely picked up a secondary virus given his weakened condition, probably in transit. He moaned a little and tried to turn away and bury himself back under the covers. 

“Darling, it’s me,” said Merlin. “You’re going to be all right. I love you. I love you so much.” He realized he was babbling as he reached for the cool basin of water sitting at the ready on the bedside table and began washing Arthur’s chest, face, and neck. Arthur still didn’t reach full consciousness, but his eyes fluttered. “You’re going to be all right,” Merlin said again. “I’ve missed you so.”

Hot tears fell on Arthur’s chest along with the cool water, and Merlin counted down the minutes. He knew if he stayed and was found out, Mordred would likely lose his job. He couldn’t repay the man’s kindness like that. He would have to leave. 

Sure enough, Mordred came back into the room after the allotted time. He stood at the end of the bed, watching. “What are you doing?” 

“This blanket is too hot for him—he needs a light sheet, and he needs to be wiped down with cool water every few minutes until the fever breaks.” 

Merlin felt Arthur’s forehead with the back of his hand. He already felt cooler. “Can I trust you to do this?” 

The young man nodded solemnly. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

But before they could escape, a middle-aged woman came into the room carrying a fresh set of bandages. She gasped when she saw her patient wasn’t alone. “Who are you?” she demanded. 

“My name is Merlin Emrys,” said Merlin, straightening up. “I’m a friend of Mr Pendragon’s, and I’m trying to bring his fever down. He was very hot.” He couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice. If this woman had been hired to care for Arthur, she was doing a very poor job indeed. 

“Oh my!” she exclaimed. “I just left for a couple hours shut-eye, sir. I’ll see to the young master now.” Dutifully, she took the bowl and cloth from Merlin. “You shouldnae be in here, sir.” 

In order to dissuade her from raising the household, Merlin told her how he’d snuck in, concerned for Arthur’s health, and how Mordred had found him—and was just about to escort him out. “I’ll trust you keep his fever down,” said Merlin. “And please, it would be in everyone’s best interests if you didn’t mention my visit to anyone.”

She nodded and gave her word. She’d likely lose her job, after all, if Uther discovered she’d abandoned her charge. 

It wasn’t quite the visit Merlin had intended, but he was greatly relieved to have seen Arthur with his own eyes. He thanked Mordred once they were again by the garden door and offered him a few pence. “It’s not much, but I’d like to repay your kindness,” said Merlin.

“No, sir,” Mordred said, holding up his hand. “I did it for Arthur, you see, because he’s always been so kind to me. The master can be a hard man.” Merlin wondered if there was another, more sinister story there—a story like his—but he dared not ask. Mordred seemed like a proud young man, and Merlin didn’t want to embarrass him. 

“If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please, don’t hesitate to contact me,” he said, pulling out his card. “Thank you again.” 

“Now sir, I couldn’t risk this again. If any—”

Now Merlin held up his hand. “I completely understand. You’ve already been more than generous. I’ll never forget it. But please—keep an eye out for him? And if it wouldn’t be too much, tell him I came to see him? I’m afraid he was quite unaware . . .” Merlin trailed off. He’d already revealed far too much. Mordred nodded solemnly.

“If I can, sir.” And with another curt bow, he shut the door behind him.

***

During the week leading up to Christmas, Merlin walked to Avalon every day, and every day was turned away—this time by the house butler. Obviously Mordred was no longer being trusted with front door guests, and he hoped he hadn’t gotten the young man into trouble. He wrote letter after letter to Arthur, and those were returned as well. Except for the occasional vague update he managed to glean from the butler—he had no word on Arthur’s condition or prognosis. His attempts to gather information from the country doctor were met with the same bad luck—obviously Uther had paid the man to refuse Merlin’s advances. All he knew was that Arthur was alive.

His stay at the Rising Sun was quite pleasant, if a bit beyond his means. He spent most afternoons writing his correspondence in the sunny sitting room near the fireplace. The landlady, a generous old woman named Alice, stayed out of his business and kept him better fed than he’d been in years.

He missed his work at the hospital—not the horror of seeing men torn up, but the feeling of usefulness. He missed Gwaine and Dr Gaius. He thought often of Gwen. He hoped he’d see her again one day.

But more than anything, he thought of Arthur. Sometimes he thought of Uther’s threats, and he despaired the impossibility of a future with Arthur. Other times, he let his mind wander optimistically. 

He was forming a plan. It only remained to be seen if Arthur—and Uther—would accept it. 

On Christmas Eve, Alice made delicious Yorkshire pudding and roast beef, but Merlin could hardly touch it. He’d written again to Avalon that morning, but this time had addressed the letter to Uther. In it, he’d asked once again to be allowed to see Arthur, but he knew those pleas had fallen on deaf ears. His letter had come back unopened. And Merlin knew he had to return to London. He could no longer afford the nightly rate, and at this point he would probably have to barter his watch for the train fare back. 

“Are you all right, dearie?” asked Alice as he pushed back from the table, not even draining the last of his pint. 

“I’m going for a walk.” 

With evening rapidly falling, Merlin headed in the now-familiar direction of Avalon, cutting across several fields rather than taking the road. He thrust his hands in his pockets and thought of Arthur as he crunched through the snow. Their time together before the war had been brief, retrospectively, but in those moments Merlin felt he’d lived a lifetime. He had never loved another as he loved Arthur and he never would again. He couldn’t leave without trying to see him at least one more time. 

He rounded the final bend and came face-to-face with Uther Pendragon.

The man wore a fine coat with a tall woollen collar. He looked altogether warm and comfortable, but his expression was grim. 

Merlin felt he might faint. “Arthur? Is he…?” He couldn’t say the word—couldn’t even think it.

“He’s alive,” said Uther. “He’s out of danger. But he’s not himself. There is nothing in that man I recognize as my son.” 

“What?” 

“I was coming to you, actually. I thought maybe . . .” He grimaced. “Perhaps you will be able to get through to him. You must tell him to stop this nonsense. A Pendragon doesn’t let a small injury defeat him. You must tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself. It’s not becoming to his position. It’s not manly—”

Uther went on, but Merlin had stopped listening. _A small injury_. Surely the man in front of him was delusional. Arthur had been and was likely still very ill, and now he had to face the fact his life was irrevocably altered. Merlin had no doubt Arthur would rally with time and support, but surely he was allowed some time to grieve for his lost leg? 

“Has he asked for me?” Merlin asked.

“Not since he woke.” 

“Take me to him.” 

They walked through the darkness together, not speaking. Anticipation filled Merlin’s chest, mingling with anxiety. He certainly wasn’t going to play the puppet for Uther, but he didn’t know what he would say to Arthur. He didn’t know if Arthur would even want to see him. 

This time, instead of going up through the servant’s passages, Uther led him up the front stairs to the third floor, and then down a lengthy hall filled with portraits of long-dead Pendragons. Merlin shuddered under their stony gazes. He pulled his coat around him, wondering if it felt draughtier in the house than it had outside. Ominously, he saw no sign of Mordred. 

Uther didn’t bother to knock. He burst open Arthur’s door and strode in. Merlin trailed less imperiously behind. 

“Your _friend_ Mr Emrys is here to see you,” said Uther, drawling the word with barely concealed contempt. 

Merlin couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the bed. He was sitting upright now, with some colour in his face, though he paled when he saw Merlin. He looked like he was recovering, putting on a little weight to round his hollowed cheeks. Merlin could barely speak for relief.

“Hello, Arthur,” Merlin managed. 

“Now, Emrys, talk some sense into my son. And Arthur, no more nonsense. You will be the man I brought you up to be. You will have some dignity.” He swept out of the room again.

Arthur, who had a moment to recover himself, crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away towards the windows. 

“I see my father sent for you to do his bidding. Tell me, Merlin, how much is he paying you?” His voice sounded dead. Yes, Uther was right—Arthur was different, but who wouldn’t be after war, after such an injury? 

“Paying me? No, dear heart.” Merlin came closer. He wanted nothing more than to take Arthur in his arms, but he didn’t yet dare. 

“Well, if he hasn’t paid you, why have you come?” 

“I came as soon as I got Percival’s letter. He wrote to me, you see.” Merlin still had the note in question, rumpled as it was with over reading. He withdrew it from his pocket and handed it to Arthur. 

“I didn’t know he wrote to you,” Arthur said, after he’d read it. “I asked him to, but I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t get to see him before they sent me home.” His eyes watered, but he brushed the tears away angrily before they could fall. 

“I came right away, love,” said Merlin. “I’ve been staying at the Rising Sun for over a week.” 

“Then why did you not visit before now?” Arthur demanded, a shade of his former self creeping through. 

“I did, one night. A mutual friend let me in, and you were burning up with fever. I tried to soothe you with ice water, but you were insensible. I was so worried.” Arthur’s eyes caught his again and held this time. He looked hopeful.

“I thought I heard your voice. I was sure of it. But when I woke up, it was just a dream.” His mouth trembled. 

“It wasn’t a dream.” Merlin sat on the side of the bed and took Arthur’s hand in both of his. It was cool this time, strong and lovely. He pressed it to his lips, and for a moment, they sat quietly. Merlin felt Arthur stroke his hair with his free hand, and he leaned into the touch. 

“You have more grey now.” 

“Does it displease you?” With the things he’d seen over the several years, he was surprised his hair hadn’t whitened entirely. 

“I think it’s distinguished. What friend, by the way?” Arthur asked. “You said a friend let you in?”

“Mordred, the young footman.” 

“Ah. My father sent him away.” Arthur grimaced. “He said he’d stolen something.” 

Merlin’s heart sank at the news. He would have to find Mordred and take full responsibility. Maybe he could get the young man hired as a clerk. “Damn. Your father thought it best I didn’t see you. He . . . you’ve probably guessed he’s figured out what we were to each other. What we are.” Merlin swallowed heavily, waiting to see how Arthur would reply.

“What we _are_.” 

The response was all Merlin needed, the final confirmation Arthur still felt the same way. He leaned forward and wrapped Arthur in his arms—and Arthur embraced him just as fiercely. Their lips met again and again, mingling with tears. Merlin’s heart beat so hard, he worried it might burst. 

“But can you really want me now?” Arthur whispered when they finally separated. His blue eyes, usually so confident and carefree, were fearful. “How can you want me broken like this?” 

“You’re not broken, darling,” said Merlin. “I know you can’t see that now, but you’re not. I told you once I’d wait for you forever, and nothing will change that.” 

Arthur shook his head. “I’ll never walk again. Or dance with you.” 

“Yes, you will. There are false legs, Arthur.” 

“Peg legs.” 

Merlin didn’t laugh. “No, love, prosthetics. I’ve seen men walk again with injuries like yours, even without crutches. And we’ll get you a chair, too, if you like. Whatever you want. We’ll get through this together.”

“But how. My father will never let me leave. He’ll make our lives hell. You’ve seen him. You—”

Merlin kissed him again to cut off the thought. “Do you trust me, Arthur?” 

“Yes.” 

“Leave your father to me.”

***

Merlin didn’t know what he expected when he broached his plan with Uther, but it certainly wasn’t this relatively easy acceptance.

“You give me your word, you will never tell Arthur what happened between us,” said Uther.

“Yes.” Merlin swallowed down bile at the acquiescence, though he knew he lied. One day he’d tell Arthur the truth and there would be no more secrets. But for now, this was the only bargaining chip he had—this, and the fact that Uther truly loved his son. 

“You know now Arthur loves me. If I tell him what you did, he’ll believe me, and he’ll never speak to you again. Perhaps we’ll live as paupers, but you’ll be disgraced. There will be rumours.” He thought about how Uther had threatened him with exposure and shook his head. “You can’t do anything else to hurt me, Uther. But you can hurt Arthur. Would you really want that for him, after all he’s been through? Do you think he’ll forgive you if you use whatever ‘evidence’ you have against me? What I’m offering is the better option, I’m sure you’ll agree.” Merlin couldn’t hold back his smug smile as he watched Uther’s head sink into his hands. They sat in the same blue room as they had during his first, ill-fated visit, but this time, it was Merlin who sipped his tea. 

“Arthur is my only son. You can’t take him from me.” 

“He’ll still be your son if you do what I ask.” 

Uther looked Merlin in the eye, then looked back at the sheet of paper. “You want a cottage in Cambridge, and the means to live comfortably.” 

“For Arthur. He wants to finish his degree. I’ll continue my law practice, of course. I don’t want your money for myself.” He’d already given Uther his proposed yearly sum—rent for the cottage as well an allowance for Arthur. Once Uther signed it, their agreement would be legally binding. 

“And how do you profess to avoid rumours about your cohabitation?” 

“The cottage I found is big enough for two bachelors to live comfortably. We’ll explain I’ve been hired as a companion and nurse. With my medical training, no one should suspect. If anything, they’ll think Arthur chose not to marry because of his injury.” He hated that idea, but if it helped them to avoid suspicion, so be it. “They won’t care about me. Besides, I’m far too old, and he’s far too above me in station. Gossip isn’t interesting when no one wants to believe it.”

“I see you’ve thought this through,” said Uther.

“I’ve thought of nothing else.” 

“What of the estate?”

“If you read section 2c”—Merlin gestured to the contract—“you’ll see that Arthur retains his rights to Avalon and his peerage upon your death. He is your only son and heir, as you’ve said, _Your Lordship_.” 

The next few moments ticked by with excruciating slowness. Finally, Merlin had everything he wanted at his fingertips, but it could just as easily be snatched away by the cruel vagaries of a man who’d once forced him to his knees. He had that power again. Merlin watched, holding his breath, as Uther picked up his pen. 

And signed.

“Don’t think this excuses what you did to me,” Merlin said as he gathered up the precious paper and folded it into his coat. “This isn’t absolution. It’s for Arthur.”

“Very well.” Uther nodded, though he didn’t seem contrite. A man like him never would. But this time, there was a glimmer of respect in his eyes. Merlin didn't want it. “Perhaps I underestimated you, Emrys.” 

“Many people do,” said Merlin as he walked out of the blue room to find Arthur. 

He would never see Uther Pendragon again.

***

Epilogue

May 1, 1945

Arthur frowned and grumbled, but rolled dutifully on his stomach while Merlin put a record on and got the lotion. A cool breeze billowed the curtains around their bed, and Merlin smiled as it ruffled Arthur’s hair. It smelled like spring. Arthur looked gorgeous like this, although he was a little grumpy—and rightfully so. His leg had been bothering him all day, and the stump was an angry red where it chafed against the prosthetic, the latest in a long line of models that had nearly—but not quite—fit.

“I thought this one was really it,” said Merlin. He warmed the lotion between his palms and leaned over Arthur’s naked back, starting with his shoulders and digging deep into the flesh. Arthur sighed and began to relax. 

“I guess it’s not so bad,” Arthur said, though he winced when Merlin ran his hands over the swollen skin of his thigh. Merlin tried to be gentle, but the scar tissue needed to be softened and massaged, and Arthur would never do it himself. Merlin didn’t mind. 

“No. If it’s not right, it’s not right. We’ll try again. You need to be able to walk into town if you like. Remember what that bloke at the Swan said, the one who was in the fusiliers? His new prosthetic fits like a glove.” 

“Yes, yes, Merlin, I remember. How could I forget? You remind me daily.” Arthur stuck his tongue out, the petulant brat that he was, and Merlin slapped his arse. “Ow!” 

“Don’t be cheeky.” 

Since Arthur had finished reading for his master’s in medieval history, he’d decided to continue on at University, and would be starting his doctorate in the autumn. Until then, they had the whole summer together, and they were planning their first holiday to the seashore in June. Merlin’s own practice had grown over the past year, and he now boasted a small, but very strategically located, office at the centre of town. Most days, they could take lunch together if they liked. 

“Merlin.” Arthur sighed. 

“Right there?” 

Arthur grunted and shifted on the bed. “Yeah.” 

The song was a rather sad one. _“I’ll be looking at the moon, and I’ll be seeing you . . .._ ” Merlin had often played it and thought of Arthur while he was away. Now, with Arthur here, it seemed a little maudlin. He left off massaging Arthur for a moment to stop it in the middle. 

“I liked that song,” Arthur groused. 

“This will be better.” Merlin grinned as he selected one of Arthur’s favourites. When the first strains began, Arthur nodded and rolled over onto his side. He started drumming his fingers on the bed. “‘Take the A Train.’ I love this.” 

“Yes,” Merlin agreed. “I know what you like.” He brought his hands back to Arthur’s flank.

“Do you think Hitler is really dead?”

The news had come over the wireless that afternoon. Apparently the man had died by his own hand—if one could call him a man. He was a monster, as far as Merlin and most of his countrymen were concerned. When Merlin saw the pictures of the camps being liberated, he knew the world would never be the same. It was a horror too vast and terrible to ever be forgotten. 

“Yes. I do. He was a coward at heart.” 

“And he died a coward’s death.” 

Merlin murmured his agreement. He wouldn’t have been so uncharitable for any other person—maybe not even Uther. 

He no longer needed to worry about the man, in any case. Uther had died in early 1944 when a spill from a horse on his estate had resulted in a massive brain hemorrhage. After, it had taken Merlin months to finally confess the truth to Arthur, and it had led to a major falling out between them. Arthur had been furious Merlin hadn't trusted him enough to tell him and had lashed out, full of grief over the death of his father and his own helplessness to change the past. In return, Merlin had been angry at Arthur's youthful sense of entitlement, his inability to understand why Merlin had kept him in the dark. They hadn't spoken for nearly two days until Arthur asked for Merlin's forgiveness. Merlin of course told him there was nothing to forgive and in turn apologised for thinking Arthur not strong enough to handle the truth. The past few years had proven Arthur was the strongest person Merlin had ever known.

They had decided to stay in the cottage rather than return to Avalon. Merlin was sure Arthur would want to live there one day, but the estate was still too full of memories of Uther. This place was safe. And now it looked like the larger world might soon be safe again, too.

Gwaine would be back. Merlin had received several letters from his mate over the years—not often, since Gwaine had never been much for correspondence or sentimentality—but enough to chart his travels. He’d been one of the first to lead the charge at Normandy. It would be good to see his old friend again. 

Speaking of old friends, Arthur was planning a visit with Leon and Percival once the war was over. They’d kept in touch, though at first their letters had been hard for Arthur to read. For a long time, he felt like he’d let them down by getting injured, and he tracked the movements and losses of his former squadron with an obsession Merlin had worried over but never commented upon, until one day Arthur had simply folded up the map, cleared off his desk, and said no more of it. He very much wanted Merlin to meet his friends, though, and he insisted Percy and Gwaine would hit it off. Perhaps they would. Merlin thought stranger things had happened. 

“Did you see the picture of Gwen and the baby?” Merlin asked, rubbing at a particularly stubborn knot in Arthur’s lower back. He’d left the card on the dining table in the hopes Arthur would find it when he got home.

Arthur nodded. “They’re looking well. Ah, I love that trumpet. Listen to it wail.” He was talking about the music. Merlin chuckled. 

“Though I still can’t believe she named the poor blighter after Dr Gaius.” 

Several months after Merlin and Arthur had moved to the cottage, they’d gotten a letter from Gwen announcing she was engaged and inviting them both to the wedding. They had gone with heavy consciences, both terrified of stirring up gossip. It turned out they needn’t have worried. Gwen was clearly besotted with her new husband, pleased to see them both, and all around lovely. She was one of the most forgiving souls Merlin had ever known. Of course Arthur had never told her outright the reason he’d broken off their engagement, but after the wedding, he suspected she knew. 

“Well, perhaps he’ll be a great doctor,” said Arthur. He was warm and pliant now under Merlin’s fingers, relaxed. Merlin couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing a kiss to the cleft right above his arse. “Speaking of doctors, stop trying to be mine for a minute and come here.” 

“Oh, if you insist.” 

Arthur easily dragged Merlin onto the bed and trapped him underneath his strong, broad body. He was much more physically fit than Merlin, though the time in his lover’s company had done Merlin’s health a world of good, too. On his last visit to the doctor’s, the man had barely been able to detect his heart murmur.

Pleased with his conquest, Arthur grinned down at him. “Now that I’ve got you here . . .” 

“What do you have in mind?” Merlin arched an eyebrow. He could feel the rapidly growing hardness against his thigh. Arthur was already nude, and he made quick work of the buttons on Merlin’s shirt while Merlin dealt with his trousers. 

Skin-to-skin finally, Merlin ran his hands down Arthur’s strong back as they kissed and started to rock together. Arthur broke away to kiss Merlin’s throat, urging him to tilt his head. His mouth was hot, biting and licking down to his chest to take a nipple into his mouth and suck it to a peak. Merlin groaned and arched into it, petting his fingers through Arthur’s luscious hair. But Arthur didn’t stop there. He kissed Merlin all over his chest, the sensitive place under his arms, the shivery juncture between thigh and hip. His kisses were liquid, mouthing bites, and Merlin melted with pleasure, powerless against the invasion. Arthur moved further down still, his intention growing clear when he braced himself on one arm between Merlin’s legs. With a devilish look in his eyes, he took Merlin’s cock into his mouth and gave it a long, slow suck. 

“Let me see you,” said Arthur.

Merlin swallowed and pulled his knees to his chest. The first touch to his entrance sent a shiver of unnameable pleasure through his body. Arthur always took his time. He circled his finger around the rim, pressing kisses all around, trailing his tongue behind Merlin’s bollocks and then licking right there, right where Merlin wanted him. 

No other man had ever done this for him, and Merlin didn’t know how he’d lived so long without the pleasure of Arthur’s talented, strong tongue. It prodded at him, urging him to open, readying him for Arthur’s thick cock. Arthur spread him with both hands, licking and sucking, groaning as though he wanted nothing more than to service Merlin’s most secret place. His slight stubble rasped against Merlin’s inner thighs, making Merlin’s toes curl. The dark, wet noises filling the room would have made a sailor blush. 

Not a former officer of the Royal Air Force, however. 

Soon, Merlin was gasping, needing more. He gripped Arthur’s shoulders and urged him up. Arthur relented almost begrudgingly, his lips shiny and obscenely swollen—but when Merlin presented him with the bottle of lotion he’d been using during the massage, his smile grew. He slicked his cock and then touched Merlin again, pushing two fingers into Merlin’s tight heat. He rubbed until Merlin’s erection started to leak onto his belly. 

“How do you want to fuck me?” Merlin asked. 

“Like this,” Arthur said, urging Merlin onto his right side so he could spoon from behind. Merlin obliged gladly, lifting his leg up in a way that made him feel deliciously wanton, as though he were presenting himself to be mated. Arthur braced himself on his good leg and searched for Merlin’s hole with his cock before pushing in with a brutal, efficient stroke. Arthur held him tight, grunting as he worked his cock in deep. 

“God, yes,” Merlin sighed. He started to touch himself while Arthur fucked in a steady, satisfying rhythm. 

It hadn’t always worked so well. In the early days after his injury, Arthur had been tentative and shy in bed. Though Merlin had been patient, their encounters often left them both frustrated: Merlin, because he wanted Arthur to let go of his self-consciousness, and Arthur, because he couldn’t. And then there were the dreams. Arthur had suffered terrible nightmares and depression in the year after his return, and often he hadn’t wanted sex at all. It hadn’t been easy for him to readjust to civilian life—and it hadn’t been easy for Merlin to watch him suffer. He knew a little bit about those kinds of dreams. 

Now things were better. The dreams still came, but with less frequency. Arthur wasn’t afraid to admit when he became uncomfortable, or to ask for Merlin to take control. Most of the time, however, Arthur was simply a powerful young man in the prime of his life with a sexual thirst Merlin delighted in slaking—sometime twice or thrice a day. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Arthur panted in his ear. “I can’t last.” 

“Then don’t.” 

Merlin felt his climax building deep within him, radiating from the place Arthur was stimulating with his cock. He clamped down and started to shake as his orgasm crested and he spurted his seed over his hand and chest. Arthur followed almost immediately with a harsh cry, pulsing deep and burying his face in the soft skin at the back of Merlin’s neck. 

They stayed together like that, joined, for a long while after. Arthur didn’t seem to want to let him go. And Merlin had no objections to that.

One week later.

Winston Churchill’s voice spoke gruffly over the wireless as Merlin turned off the kitchen tap to listen.

_“Yesterday morning at 2:41 a.m. at Headquarters . . .”_

Merlin’s heart sped up. “Arthur! Get in here!” 

“What?” came a yell from Arthur’s study at the other end of the cottage. 

“ . . . _unconditional surrender of all German Land, sea, and air forces in Europe_. . .”

Merlin turned the dial up. His heart was thundering madly. “Get your arse in here now!” 

He heard the telltale sound of Arthur’s slightly uneven gait as he made his way to the kitchen. Seconds later, Arthur appeared in the doorway with a slightly annoyed look on his face. “Whatever in the world are you nattering—”

“Shut up, shut up!” Merlin was nearly bouncing with joy. “Listen, you daft fool! The war in Europe is over!” 

“What?” 

“It’s over. It’s over!” He nearly flung himself at Arthur, who steadied himself to take the full brunt of Merlin’s weight. “Listen! Churchill’s addressing the nation.” 

With a slightly dazed expression on his face, Arthur allowed himself to be led towards the small kitchen table where they kept the radio. Merlin ferretted around in his pocket for his cigarette case, and the two of them sat opposite each other, smoking and listening as the Prime Minister continued. 

_“Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight to-night, but in the interests of saving lives the “Cease fire” began yesterday to be sounded all along the front . . .”_

“Cease fire,” Merlin said excitedly. “Did you hear that? Arthur?” 

He couldn’t quite account for Arthur’s reaction. He’d expected a mad whoop of joy—this was what they’d been waiting for—or perhaps tears: anything but this blank stare. 

“It’s over,” Arthur said quietly. He stubbed out his cigarette and Merlin did the same.

“Yes. Well, not completely. There’s still the Pacific. But—”

“It’s over!” Arthur bolted up, nearly springing out of his chair. He grinned like a madman and grabbed Merlin’s hand, pulling him onto his feet. “It’s over!” 

“Yes, darling.” Merlin’s chest squeezed at the look of pure happiness on Arthur’s face. He was like a boy again. 

How long they stood in the kitchen holding each other, just listening, Merlin didn’t know. But the minutes ticked by and Churchill’s address ended, and then the scheduled BBC program was interrupted again by the news. The sky outside started to darken by the time they finally separated. 

“I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you?” Merlin asked. He’d come upon a bottle of Beaujolais several years before—a gift from Mordred, who’d wanted to thank Merlin for helping him find a new situation after he’d been let go from the Pendragon estate. He was flourishing now in Cardiff. Merlin had been saving it for this exact occasion.

They got the bottle and some glasses and went to the sitting room, giggling like schoolboys. Arthur fiddled with the Gramophone while Merlin poured. 

Arthur raised his glass solemnly. “To the troops, dead and alive. And to all of those who suffered and died in this horrible war.” He paused a moment. “And may the war in the Pacific end quickly without great loss of life.” 

“Hear, hear.” 

They drank deeply, both polishing off their glasses in one go. Merlin refilled them, already lightheaded. It wouldn’t take much to get him drunk—he’d hardly touched a drop in years. He buzzed with wine and happiness, though the emotion was tempered now by Arthur’s toast. So much had been lost—and there was more bloodshed still to come. 

Arthur raised his glass again. “And to us. To you. For being my dearest friend, and the best man I’ve ever known.” His eyes got a little misty. Perhaps it was the music. Merlin knew why Arthur had picked this particular song. He was a sentimental fool, but then so was Merlin. They often teased one another about who was the bigger sappy sod. Merlin didn’t want to tease Arthur now. 

“To us,” Merlin echoed, bringing his goblet to his lips. After he’d sipped, Arthur took it from him and set both glasses on the table. He took Merlin’s hand.

“May I have this dance?” 

“Of course.” Merlin swayed with Arthur to the gentle, familiar rhythm, twining his arms around Arthur. But Arthur didn’t need steadying, though he moved with care. Perhaps the new prosthetic would work after all. It didn’t seem to be paining Arthur now. 

“Do you remember the first night we met?” Arthur spoke the words against his cheek. “I was so bloody nervous.” 

“You didn’t show it—much.” Merlin chuckled, remembering, though even now the memory had faded, replaced by years together, years of loving one another. 

Yes, much had been lost, but they’d rebuild again, as they had after the Great War. Their foundation would be even stronger this time. So much still remained. 

This remained.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on warnings/tags: This story contains references to the rape of one of the MCs (20 years earlier) but includes no graphic descriptions. The infidelity warning is included as precautionary but is is a matter of reader interpretation: though Arthur gets engaged during the course of the story, his relationship to Merlin remains central. There are also references to and general descriptions of war-related violence, serious injuries, and PTSD. 
> 
> I have quoted directly from the following sources:  
> Neville Chamberlain’s announcement of war: http://www.bbc.co.uk/archive/ww2outbreak/7957.shtml?page=txt  
> Winston Churchill’s announcement of cease fire: http://www.winstonchurchill.org/learn/speeches/speeches-of-winston-churchill/95-end-of-the-war-in-europe  
> Another link you might find interesting is the RAF timeline, used as a loose basis for Arthur's wartime experience: http://www.raf.mod.uk/history/raftimelinehomepage.cfm


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